Aches and Pains
by GratefulInsomniac
Summary: Cuddy makes a gesture that causes House to rethink the things that he knows. Some Hurt/Comfort undertones. Season 3, begins after Top Secret and then becomes AU. Will include adult content. A 4 chapter short story. Cuddy's ending will now be in the form of a new Short Story
1. The Envelope

_A/N-This story begins after Top Secret, during Season 3. After that episode, it's completely AU. This is a short story, 4 chapters, I'll update as quickly as I can. I don't want to try to run two stories at once, but I can't stop thinking about this one, so I have to get it down on paper. I will still continue updating 'Preservation.' Hope you enjoy. _

_I always felt like things were so much simpler back in Season 3, before a lot of the more severe hurts of Seasons 5 and onward. It seemed like so much more was possible back then. Thanks for reading!  
_

**Disclaimers- I don't own any of the characters of House, MD.**

**Also, certain chapters are heavy on sexual content, so here is the warning now and it is for the whole story. For people who do not enjoy stories with such content, you will likely not enjoy this story. **

**-UPDATES are dependent upon whether or not I have power after Hurricane Sandy comes through. There may be delays this week if power outages are severe.**

* * *

-The Envelope-

He had flirted with Cuddy, he acknowledged that much. It was by far the most direct reference to their one night stand that he had ever made openly to her. Probably the part that interested him most was the realization that she had flirted back. Her words indicated her disinterest, but her body language screamed of _possibility_ and her confident, coquettish departure perfectly embodied the youthful exuberance she had displayed back in the days when they had first seduced one another. His memory was perfectly clear, their seduction was mutual. He could feel the warmth along his neck and face as he flushed at the memories, and couldn't deny the deep throb of desire that threatened to arouse him at the mere thought of feeling her naked form writhing and wiggling against him between his arms. This was so much a part of why he both needed and avoided her.

He got to his door, still pondering all that he'd seen that day one week ago, and nearly slipped when the tip of his cane plunked down on the thick manila envelope that had been slipped under the door. He cursed as he flung his backpack over the back of the sofa and reached his long arm down to bring the envelope up from the floor. He frisbee'd the envelope onto the coffee table and went to the kitchen, pouring himself a strong drink and limping to the sofa. He clicked on the TV, taking a few sips of his drink while his eyes drifted with interest to the envelope.

He picked it up, sat back, rested his heels on the coffee table and ripped it open, sliding the contents out onto his lap. He tried to figure why he was looking at the case file he was looking at, and in moments he realized that it was his own. There were scans, a description of his infarction, his surgery, his condition since the surgery, and statements from surgeons and doctors testifying to the fact that he was in nearly constant pain. He couldn't figure out why anyone wanted to tell him what he already clearly knew himself. He pondered the materials in front of him as he rubbed the thigh that felt like it ached even more from reading the reasons _why_ there was pain in the first place. Beneath the case file was another, smaller envelope, which he opened to find a letter announcing that he was accepted as a patient for an experimental procedure to alleviate pain, a plane ticket, waivers that needed to be completed and signed, and instructions to follow before arrival.

House felt stunned as he realized exactly what he had been accepted into. This wasn't a trial using faked scans or pretenses; this was a program accepting _him _as a patient in chronic pain, worthy of a risky trial procedure being conducted in a few weeks in Germany. His mind quickly flicked through the questions at hand. There really was no doubt, he would take part in the very risky trial that clearly couldn't do anything to strengthen his mangled thigh, but had the distinct possibility of removing or lessening his pain. The more interesting question at that moment was _who _set him up.

His first thought went to his fellows. Upon quick examination, it made sense that perhaps, out of guilt or even pity, they tried to make amends by enrolling him in a program that was similar to the one they had disqualified him from. It was easy to see that it couldn't be them. It looked as if the entire process took only days, and he knew that it took enormous clout to pull strings like that, and he guessed that someone with a significant amount of money took care of the expenses that he clearly didn't have to pay. His mind next wondered if it could be Wilson, but the same facts that excluded his fellows from the list also excluded his friend. It was possible that a wealthy patient or the family of a patient arranged the trial out of gratitude. He dismissed that option just as quickly, realizing that most patients and families didn't understand how much pain he was in, and they certainly couldn't get access to his medical records. There was only one option: Cuddy.

Cuddy had the influence to pull some strings, the right connections, and was well-liked within the medical community. Cuddy also had money, and enough guilt to want to facilitate his enrollment. Of course parts of that still didn't make sense. She never said anything about his falsified tumor. She never even mentioned the ruse, never admonished him for misleading her or others, never rebuked him for causing her concern. He could see the day after she found out about his ploy, a sense of sadness. He could sense that she felt betrayed, but for some reason didn't want to let on that she had any reaction at all to what had happened. It would have been simpler if she just would have attacked with the fury of an administrator wronged.

He hoisted himself up and went immediately to his bike. There was no thought or plan, but after a short ride, he was staring at her warmly lit window. Hesitating for a few seconds when he found himself at the end of her walkway, staring at her door, he couldn't silence the wonder in his mind. He had to know why.

He pounded his cane on her door repeatedly until she opened it. It was ten at night, but she was still dressed in jeans and a warm blue top. She brushed her hair back, then crossed her arms, trying to look innocent, but everything about her instantly confirmed his suspicion that she was the guilty one who had enrolled him in the trial.

"What do you need, House?" she asked, with attempted irritation. "You want me to sign off on something, you needed to confirm what I was up to, or are you just here for a hug and an ass grab?"

"I don't need an approval…I'm always interested in whatever you are doing…and if you want to start with an ass grab, I'm willing to do my part," he said as he flexed and stretched his hands, cracking his knuckles.

She laughed in her throaty, almost seductive way and said, "What do you want?"

"I want to know why."

"Why…what?"

"I know you signed me up. Why?"

"For what…I don't know what you are-"

"Weird. I thought you knew me. Did you really think I'd just accept the gift and chalk it up to the kindness of strangers? It's a great puzzle. How did they do it so quickly, who did it…perhaps more interestingly _why_ did they do it? Did you honestly think you could do something like that, and that I wouldn't chase that answer endlessly until I had it?"

Cuddy shook her head no, fully prepared to deny and deflect, when she unexpectedly surrendered, "Are you going to do it?"

The look of concern was palpable. In some way, the empathy she seemed to have in that moment hurt him, because it felt so unfamiliar. "Why did you do it?" he pressed unrelentingly. "Is this guilt? I don't blame-"

"It's not guilt," she interrupted.

He stepped closer, perilously closer. "Then why?"

Her hands were folded nervously in front of her and she reached a punctuating finger forward, just enough so that he could feel her brush against his shirt. "First, tell me you'll do it. Tell me you will try it."

He leaned down, his face only inches from hers. "Invite me in," he whispered.

She shivered, obviously, overtly, and straightened herself, "Can't. I have a date."

He smirked, "No you don't. It's late. Too late. So either you were stood up, and you're holding out hope, or there is no date."

"There _is_ a date," she said assuredly.

"Then you better hurry up and tell me why…or do you want to go through the uncomfortable scenario of introducing me to another potential suitor…who will obviously see that he doesn't measure up to me."

"I overheard…your conversation with Wilson the other day. You couldn't urinate…I felt…"

"Not peeing has nothing to do with the pain," he said with an exaggerated eye roll.

"It probably has to do with the Vicodin. Which has to do with the pain. Why didn't you come to me?"

"And tell you what? That I couldn't pee? Then soon you'll be calling me to…whine about cramps. We aren't friends like that, Cuddy."

He could see the edge of her collarbone rising along the collar of her shirt when she breathed, a strangely erotic detail. She looked both nervous and maybe even a little turned on. For a moment he wondered what she'd do if he closed that bare gap between them and kissed her lips. He lowered just a bit more, leaning against the frame of the door with his shoulder so he was near enough to kiss her, or to be kissed, should she be the one to initiate such a bold move. "Are you going to do it?" she asked again.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she nodded with bold and certain affirmation, and then turned her face up toward his in a way that was practically daring him to kiss her. He knew that she knew exactly what she was doing. The tension that had been building between them was unmistakable. He thought about her often, admitting openly that she was the perfect fantasy to get off to in the shower, objectifying her, occasionally even to her face. The things he didn't admit were far more troublesome. The fact that he was so near her and wanted so badly to feel her soft lips pressed against him. That fact was more troubling. The fact that she was willingly only a thin slice of air away from him and certainly wasn't backing away was equally troublesome. He wanted to taste her, to feel her warm, smaller body against his front, maybe feel her hands reaching for him, pulling him closer.

Most of all, he wanted to understand.

She moved in closer and his pulse thundered in his ears and much to his irritation, he could already feel the stirrings of physical arousal. She hadn't even touched him, except for the tiniest brush of a punctuating finger that he could barely feel against his shirt, but he had to admit that perhaps that was part of the fun. The torment. The game. She moved closer, and he finally allowed himself to accept that her kissing him was going to happen. Her lips were practically on his and he could feel his eyelids barely begin to drift shut when she said, "It does matter. It matters to me. Are you going to do it?"

His eyes opened fully again and he nodded, a bit dumber and less consciously guarded for the blood lost from his brain. He cleared his throat, "Yea."

She smiled, stepped her body even closer, if that was possible, and said, "Good."

He expected a taunt in her voice, which he didn't find. The simple response, 'good,' was spoken in a way that sounded like relief, almost happiness, but not victory.

He breathed, they could feel each other breathing. When he smelled toothpaste or mouthwash or something minty on her breath he was reminded of their circumstance. "Your date…might feel a little _extra_ threatened if he shows up and you're making out with another guy on your doorstep."

"Are we making out?" she asked playfully. "I seem to remember making out being a little different than whatever it is that we are doing."

He smirked, at least fifty retorts floating through his head. "We definitely seem close enough…it wouldn't take much effort to turn what this is _now_…into something else."

He thought he could hear his heartbeat's thump in his words and tried harder to appear at ease. He continued, as evenly as he could, "It would definitely look suspicious. Like…maybe…something was about to happen. Or had just finished happening. I just know that, if I was picking a woman up for an actual date, I wouldn't want to see another guy in the position that I am in with you. Standing so…closely…intimately…obviously maintaining your undivided attention."

He thought he had her, that she was on the precipice of admitting that she didn't have a date. He wondered if she was going to invite him inside at that point, or admit that maybe she was a little scared to invite him inside. He both wanted the invitation, and feared it himself. He knew, he was every bit as scared to receive such an invitation as she was to extend it. It was a constant dance with them, pulling and pushing, wanting and rejecting. Neither knew how to move beyond such moments. Neither knew how to stop their progression, or even knew if they really _would_ stop it if they knew how. Either way, at the exact moment when he knew he was about to call her bluff, he heard a car door slam behind him. For a second, he looked surprised, then hurt, then said, "If he's going to hit me, at least warn me."

She smiled, "Who said it's a 'he' I'm having a date with?"

House's thoughts whirled for a moment when he heard someone quickly coming up the walkway. "Hi," the woman said immediately. "I didn't realize I was coming at a bad time."

He turned his head over his shoulder without changing the position of his body to see a woman grinning devilishly at him. "I'm Julia. _Who_ are you?"

"Julia?" he asked, "As in Julia _Cuddy_?"

"Formerly," she corrected. "I'm married now." The woman was looking him over, definitely not unapprovingly, and then she nodded, "You…are House…aren't you?"

He turned to Cuddy, victoriously, "So you've mentioned me?"

"You may have come up," Cuddy said, trying to appear calm. "A lot of my employees come up in conversation."

"Yea," Julia said with a slight giggle, "but this is the first one I've caught you fooling around with on your front step…or anywhere else…"

"We were _not _fooling around," Cuddy responded, feigning disgusted horror.

House turned back to Cuddy. He was still leaning down, and although Cuddy had stepped back a bit, she was still closer than what he had expected. "I should go," she said as she felt herself blushing.

"I'm…gonna wait inside," Julia said, smirking while she passed her sister and disappeared inside.

House looked back at Cuddy cockily, ready to taunt her for mentioning him, for almost kissing him, and she looked down nervously. "It hurts really badly? Doesn't it?"

The smile disappeared from his face and he nodded, "Yea."

"All of the time?" she asked sadly.

"Pretty much," he said with a tone of acceptance.

"I don't want you to…hurt constantly."

"So it _is_ guilt," he said, observing but not taunting.

"No," she said, shaking her head adamantly. "It's not guilt. Can't I just…want you to not hurt?"

His only answer was a doubtful look.

"So you really do think I'm a…heartless bitch. Someone who can…see your pain and not feel empathy or compassion?"

She was hurt, the flirtation gone.

"You still think a placebo would help? I think…that…you just think I'm just looking for a fix. Maybe I'm not _really_ in constant…agonizing pain."

She looked away, avoiding his gaze for so long that he thought maybe she wasn't ever going to answer. "There have been times when I've underestimated how much you hurt. I'm…sorry. But I'm not a heartless bitch who's devoid of empathy."

"I didn't say-"

"Forget it. It's OK," Cuddy interrupted, shrugging it off. "You want to know why. And that is why. I don't want your life to be only about hurt…after I overheard your conversation with Wilson, it really made me think. About how your life is about the pain and the ways to try to avoid pain. I want your life to be more, and I don't see how it can while you are in constant pain. I really…hope it helps you. Even a little."

He watched, more confused than ever, as Cuddy retreated into the safety of her home and steadily pressed the door shut. It didn't slam, but he heard the click and he even thought he heard the sounds of Cuddy padding down the hall to her sister.

He lay in bed when the sun was rising the next morning, staring at the ceiling, reaching down to rub his thigh. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to know exactly why she had done that for him, and he felt it was so much more than what she had let on during their conversation. His leg _hurt_. In the few hours since he came home he paced, took a hot bath and popped extra Vicodin while sipping his drink and nothing seemed to alleviate the chronic ache. The pain was at a high for him, a horrible combination of aches, like a seizing muscle and a raw exposed nerve undergoing a simultaneous onslaught of unpleasant stimuli.

He sat on the edge of his bed pushing roughly downward into his leg. He knew part of his displeasure that morning, every bit as real as his leg, was his need for her. He wanted her in ways that simply couldn't be sated by getting off in the shower. He could jerk off a hundred times and still feel the urgent and raw ache that accompanied thoughts of her. The wanting was omnipresent, and he saw no way of resolving that tension in a way that wouldn't be catastrophic.

The problem was even larger than the pain in his leg, or the ache that consumed most of the rest of his body, it was her gesture. The fact that she acknowledged his pain, and then wanted to do something to make it better. She went far out of her way to try to help him. It wasn't an empty nod to his pain, it was real. Even better, and worse, was the empathy in her eyes. He could see her reaction was beyond guilt. She really did feel hurt at his pain. He wasn't sure if having her acknowledge the truth was touching or horrifying. He wasn't sure if having her empathy made it hurt more or less. He wasn't sure if the possibility that maybe she wanted him was exciting or petrifying.

Frustrated by his own pain both emotionally and physically, he tried to decide what he actually _knew_. He knew that it hurt and he was going to do something to try stop that hurt. He knew he was going to show up for that trial in Germany. He knew that there was a chance that things _could_ change.

* * *

Cuddy woke in the morning to an insistent alarm. The previous night, her sister stayed with her until the early hours of morning. Her sister finally had a few minutes away from her screaming baby at home for the two of them to plan a wedding shower for a mutual friend over a bottle of wine.

Getting up and showering, she continued to replay the events of the last evening. She still couldn't decide if House was toying with her, if he liked her or if he hated her. She couldn't help but wonder if he actually wanted her, and at the same time, if she actually wanted him. It always seemed that if they could turn off the persistent attraction between the two of them, they could somehow avoid the perpetual ebb and flow that always seemed to push them steadily closer while keeping them apart.

She groaned her frustration at the mirror aloud while she pondered their conundrum. Cuddy was partially dressed in her robe and underwear when she ran to the kitchen to have coffee and a quick breakfast.

Since she was already running late, she was pleased when she smelled the aroma of coffee flooding her home that she remembered to set the timer on her coffee pot the night before. She went immediately to the pot, reaching into the cabinet for a mug with one hand and grabbing the handle of the decanter with another, only snapping out of autopilot when she realized that the decanter lifted too easily, it was too light. She looked down to see that half of the pot was empty.

"I helped myself. Do you always treat guests like this?" she heard from behind her.

Cuddy jumped, clattering the pot onto the counter, spinning around, gasping. "You have absolutely no concept of appropriate boundaries, do you? Fuck, House you scared me half to death! Why…can't you just call like everybody else!"

He stood from his seated position at her kitchen table and approached her. "Because I'm not like everyone else," he answered simply.

She was leaning at the spot where the counter tops met, the corner near the sink, and he could actually see her breath hitch when he came closer. He hooked his cane on the back of one of the chairs, and took the remaining few steps cautiously toward her. His right hand met the countertop directly next to her, his arm almost brushing her side. Once he was in place, he looked off in the distance, casually asking, "Have fun with your sister?"

She nodded.

He added, "I didn't get a chance to thank you. For signing me up for the trial. For setting up…everything."

She nodded again, wordlessly, breathing heavily at his closeness. "It's not a problem."

"Do I make you nervous?" he asked gently.

"No," she answered, determined.

"You look nervous. Or…tense."

"You startled me, what do you expect," she stoically defended.

"I wanted to finish our discussion."

"Which discussion?"

"The one your sister interrupted. The one where…you were going to tell me exactly why you did this for me."

"I told you."

"No you didn't. Not really," he accused.

"Do I have to have some hidden agenda…an ulterior motive?"

"If you don't, then you should have no problem telling me exactly why you did that."

"You are so infuriating. Do you really think I _like_ seeing you in pain? Do you think it doesn't matter to me?"

"I think you feel guilty."

"I don't. Maybe I do. A little. But guilt aside."

"I've been in pain for years. Why start to care now?"

"I didn't _start_ to care now," she said, angrily slipping away and going to fill her mug.

"That's how it looks from my end. If you didn't just start to care now, then what's changed?"

Cuddy was facing the pot, drumming her fingers on the counter. "Just forget it," she ordered. "I probably have some horrible hidden motive…I'm like that."

"No," he said resolutely, "It's not that. And I can't just forget it. I'm physically incapable of just forgetting it. What's changed?"

"You have!" she almost screamed. Then she was walking toward him, passionately angry. "You _have_ changed. You've never really…valued your life despite all of your attempts to look like a narcissistic asshole. But now…these last few months…you've been insanely reckless, the suicide attempt…"

"There was _no_ suicide attempt," he huffed defiantly.

"Yea. There was. You know yourself. You know Vicodin. You are a fucking doctor. I'm sure you know exactly how close you can get, and I saw your tox results. You weren't anywhere near close to 'oops I made a miscalculation' levels. Besides…even if you were…you don't make mistakes like that. You take risks…sometimes insane ones. But you don't make stupid miscalculations. I see you…increasingly unconcerned with whether or not you survive. At some point, I realized that these things are indicative of exactly how much pain you must be in. And that scares me."

"You are reading way too much into isolated events."

"You can't…possibly be serious," she responded.

"I've been fine lately."

"You haven't. You've been taking so much Vicodin that you couldn't pee. I heard the whole damn conversation, House. If you had a problem, why didn't you come to me?"

"If you heard the conversation, why didn't you come to me?" he countered.

"I went to Wilson."

"Behind my back."

"I walked in after you spoke to him and asked what I could do to help you. He said nothing. He said you had to stop taking the Vicodin. He said that…if I approached you, you'd rebuff…deny…pull away."

"I'm not a child for you and Wilson to watch over."

"You're doing those things now. Like you did last night. When I ask you something personal…you deny, rebuff, deflect."

He looked away.

She caught his gaze, standing close, "You wanted to know why I set that up. And this is why. You matter. I hate…seeing you hurt. And I…hate seeing how things are so quickly getting worse. Where will you be in two years? In five? Will you live to ten? Then I thought about the study. About…all you must have gone through to…fake all of that."

"You never said anything about that either. Not to me," he said, his voice raising.

"Neither did you. You never…apologized. You led me to believe you were dying…and you had no remorse."

"You didn't seem terribly upset."

"Because you don't deal with people having emotions involving you very well. I didn't want to upset you when I thought you had cancer, so when I first heard…I tried to be calm about it. And then it's…all a lie…and you don't come to me. No apology…no explanation. Don't you think that hurt me?"

"I had no way of knowing it did. You didn't mention it."

"I'm mentioning it now," she said, frustrated and tired. "You _hate _that I care about you. About whether or not you're in pain."

"You care, hunh?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," she said, daring his objection.

"You care about me?"

"Yes"

"As an employee"

"Partially"

"Partially?"

"And as…you," she said, swallowing noticeably.

"Really. So we're _friends_?"

"I hope so"

"Do you …completely distrust all of your friends?"

"I don't _distrust_ you."

"You just go behind my back."

"Because _you_ don't trust _me,_" she argued.

"You don't trust me either."

"I do," she insisted.

"How much?" House asked as he stepped closer, angling her so that she was again wedged between his body and the counter.

"Very much," she said, swallowing.

"Then why do you look so nervous?" he asked, taking one of her hands into both of his and feeling along her wrist to confirm what he could see from the pulse in her neck. Her heart was racing.

"Because I don't want this conversation to end wrong and it will. It always does."

He nodded, thinking quietly, "So you aren't nervous because I kind of have you trapped here? Between me and the counter? After all, according to you I'm a bit crazy…imbalanced…suicidal. And you're stuck here…alone with me."

"You're a bigger danger to yourself than to anyone around you," she whispered, her eyes once again meeting his boldly.

His fingers wrapped around her, slowly clasping her wrist and directing her hand between her body and the counter. Watching her for any signs of fear, he noticed her eyes were trained on his face. She was nervous, but didn't look frightened in the least. So he lifted her other hand, bringing it to his chest and running his thumb along her palm.

"You aren't scared," he affirmed, "But you do seem…nervous."

"I told you I'm not scared of you," she replied.

"But you _are _nervous."

He watched her eyes move across his face and he could tell that she was considering her answer. He moved her other wrist behind her, pinning that one too between her body and the counter, and waiting for an answer. She started to look away and he brought his hand to her chin, just barely touching her to lift her face back to his. "So that means…that you trust that I won't hurt you physically, but you're worried I'll hurt you…other ways?" he asked.

"Doesn't that go both ways? You don't even trust me enough to believe that I don't want you to be in pain. What the fuck does that say?" She looked into his eyes. "I wish I could make you believe it."

His mind fired and misfired with thoughts that were scattered and confused, and he could see in her eyes that not only his pain, but his vulnerability actually impacted her. "Make you see that…people do care," she continued. "Make you see that…I care. Instead I try to do something…decent for you, and all you can think is that I'm trying to somehow…manipulate you…play a game. Is that what you think?"

He shook his head no, while his mind continued to flutter. On the surface, he was completely in control, had her hands pressed behind her back, had her pinned in front of him, and yet he was still completely out of control. He let go of one hand, moved his hand steadily up her arm to her elbow, from her elbow to her shoulder, but she kept her hands willingly behind her back, even after he let go. His hand rested at the top of her shoulder, his fingers against the back of her neck and the base of her skull, so he trusted as she did: he let go of her other hand. Still she kept both hands behind her, her breasts pressed forward even as he leaned his chest closer to hers. He brought his other hand up similarly, feeling her pulse in her neck under his thumbs. She was unsettled, excited, more nervous than he thought he had ever seen her. He moved steadily forward while his hands moved farther up to hold her face firmly in place while his lips met hers.

His lips were so much softer than she'd remembered; hers were soft, full and sweet to the taste. Noting that her hands were still where he had left them, that she didn't remove them from the space behind her to push him away, he allowed his tongue to trace the line where her lips met and felt a surge of arousing confidence when she shuddered against him with her own desire. She returned the attention more forcefully, the way that she kissed, like the person she was, all at one time delicate, persistent, and spine-tinglingly hot.

His hands left her face, firmly drifting to her sides, to her arms, down the slick smoothness of her robe. He felt her skin prickle while his fingers and hands pressed along the skin of her arms and followed around to her hands. He took her left hand and freed it from behind her, directing it to his shoulder, and she responded again, eager to hold him closer to her, moving her hands to the back of his head, hoping beyond rational hope that he wouldn't pull away. He took her other hand from behind her back and directed it to his chest. She grabbed the fabric of his tee shirt roughly, her actions defining the degree of need that she felt and shattering any doubts that he had about the fact that she felt the same desire for him that he felt for her.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against him and listening to a moan that emerged from deep inside of her, and when it hit the air sounded more like a contented and needy purr than any noise he had ever heard before. When his one hand slid down her to her side, he realized that the silkiness below his palm was her skin. It startled him from the intensity of their mutual attraction and he pulled back. She looked down, seeing that the tie to her robe had come undone, the heel of his palm was on the flat of her stomach, his long fingers reaching around her side. Their eyes met in confusion for a moment and much to his surprise, she was the one who moved next, closing the gap to kiss him again, not removing his hand, or refastening her robe, but continuing the encounter with desirous abandon.

He heard the irritating sound of a beeping pager and tried to ignore it, the feeling of her next to him far too captivating to willingly leave. It went off again and he ran his nose along her skin to her ear, "You can check that," he said, his voice so low and turned-on that she wanted nothing more than to continue their encounter.

"Check what?" she moaned as she felt his rough face along her shoulder and neck, her hands still preventing his retreat.

"Your pager," he said, unable to stop his lips from twitching upward at the realization of exactly how lost she was in what was going on between them.

She pulled back, her hand resting on his chest. "It's yours," she said with a small smile. "I don't keep my pager or my phone in my robe."

"Oh," he shrugged returning his hand to the space between her side and the robe, and his lips to the spot on her neck that seemed to make her melt beneath him. He remembered that spot from all those years ago.

But the pager went off again and again a few minutes later. He groaned looking down at it, his eyes following the edges of the open robe to take in the beauty of her partially uncovered body. "I gotta go. The kids tried to handle someone new on their own," he said, turning quickly away from Cuddy.

"Hey," she said, following him two or three steps while she pulled her robe tightly around her again.

"Thank you," he said, catching her smirk.

"Thank you," she replied, blushing.

"No," he near-chuckled, "I mean yes…but…I meant thank you for the trial."

"We have a few weeks until you go. Would you like to…come tonight for dinner? Or we could go out…"

"I can't," he said, looking away.

"OK," she answered, biting her lip, expecting the rejection, but feeling it burning just the same.

"It's just…I…"

"You don't have to explain," she said calmly.

"I do. The trial. It's a bad time to…get mixed up in anything. I mean…there's a chance I'll be some…drooling vegetable…a chance I'll be the same angry bastard."

"A chance your pain will be gone…or significantly lessened," she offered.

"A chance. It's better if we wait…see what happens."

"What if the outcome doesn't dictate how I feel about you," she answered sheepishly.

"You want to make out with a drooling vegetable?"

"No," she laughed softly. "But…if you're still in pain…there might be other treatments…other options…"

"If it doesn't work, I'm not going to…make you deal with me…angry…disappointed…in pain…you deserve better."

She seemed stunned but determined to protest, and he took his opportunity, grabbing his cane and fleeing as quickly as possible. The air felt cold around her in his absence. She wasn't sure if she should mourn the missed opportunity, hope for the best for the future, or be grateful that they'd avoided an encounter that would have doubtlessly ended with a lot more moaning, writhing and potentially resentment if they hadn't been interrupted.

When she arrived at work, she expected the next few weeks to be tense. She expected push back, rejection, she thought he'd try to prove to her his disinterest. They didn't see each other that day. The next day, when he needed her permission for something he acted like he usually did. A bit aggressive, a bit playful, a bit derogatory, but at the end, after she signed the paper, his finger slid softly against hers when he took the proof of her consent. He nearly smiled, it was barely noticeable, just a tiny acknowledgement that there wasn't complete hatred between them.

They went on like that for over a week, acting much like they always did, with private hints of flirtation. It was a return to much of the same, a return to limbo. She decided there was one choice. She had to pull her head down from the clouds and return to the safety of work until after House returned from the experimental procedure in Germany.

He also found safety in his usual routines, rejecting even the consideration of other possibilities for the moment. A week and three days after he found the envelope under his door, he found an email from Cuddy. The email told him he could take the following week off to prepare for his departure, and that he wasn't required to attend a conference overseas that she had virtually forced him to agree to attend in the first place. It was freedom from the hospital to lose himself in drugs or drink or whatever he felt like losing himself in during a week's vacation. He smiled with satisfaction at this second unexpected act of kindness, settling back in his chair and considering exactly how he wanted to spend his week of freedom. And then there was that question again. Why?

His attempt to relax was quickly foregone while he got up and went straight for the elevator to go to her office. She wasn't there, he discovered when he barged in past the objecting assistant. House reemerged from her office, and looked at the assistant, obviously someone new.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Who?" the assistant anxiously responded.

House smirked and waited.

"Oh, you mean Dean Cuddy?" the young woman clarified.

"Yes, I mean Dean Cuddy."

"Meeting up in NICU with Nurse Roberts. She'll be back after that."

"OK," House answered, turning away to go find her.

"Sir," the assistant called after him, "If you wait a few minutes, I'm sure she'll be back."

House smirked as he continued to leave, shouting back, "I'm not good at waiting patiently for answers."


	2. The NICU

_A/N-I'm SO GLAD that people want to read this, thank you so much for the warm reception. My mind is completely looping on this story, it's very persistent, so I'm really enjoying sharing it with you all. Update for "Preservation" will be up soon. Thanks to all who alerted/favorited the story, and to all who reviewed: IHeartHouseCuddy, Reader, Bounce, Jane Q. Doe, Alex, Abby, HuddyGirl, lenasti16, Boo's House, jaybe61, TheHouseWitch, OldSFfan, JLCH, LapizSilkwood, LoveMyHouse, newdayz, BJAllen815, gemdevisine, ClareBear14, Suzieqlondon, dmarchl21, housebound, givemekevinbacon, Little Greg and Mon Fogel.  
_

_Thank you so much to all who wished us well during the storm. The house didn't blow away!_

**_All Disclaimers apply._**

* * *

-The NICU-

House watched from the other side of the glass as Cuddy spoke to the head nurse in the NICU. The conversation was curt but professional, from what he could tell, since he couldn't actually hear. Nurse Roberts didn't seem to appreciate whatever Cuddy was questioning while the nurse tended to the baby in her charge. The child was small, weak looking, but likely only a week or two premature, certainly not in any immediate distress. House guessed the child was there for observation after a C-section, or perhaps just there under the heat lamp after an early birth. The type of case where a NICU nurse didn't have to worry too much about her patient's needs.

The head nurse diapered the child quickly, with the swift efficiency of a woman who had diapered hundreds, if not thousands, of babies in the past, so unlike the cautious, gentle care the child would soon receive from his parents. The more serious cases were in the room behind them, which was filled with monitors, wires and babies who were very premature or quite ill. The nurse looked as if she was about to mount an argument to whatever it was that Cuddy was saying, while the dean gestured for two interns who stood nearby to join in the conversation. Just when the group was all standing together, there was an emergency behind them. The nurse hurriedly put the baby down on the table under the warming lamp and herded the students to the emergency so they could learn through experience.

Cuddy stood there, waiting, looking down at her clipboard and trying to ignore the increasing whining of the child only two feet away from her. She looked as if she was growing impatient, looking between her papers and the area where the staff were all working. House saw her sigh, tilt her head to one side, and look at the crying infant. She let the clipboard hang loosely at her side between her bent fingers and her hip, and thought. She tucked the clipboard under her arm, washed her hands, and returned to the child. Reaching one hand up, slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hand over the baby's torso comfortingly, but the child continued to cry. Little fists twisted and legs kicked with displeasure at his lonely spot on the table. It was amazing that a child so young could mount such an angry and ardent argument.

She looked around again, likely because she hoped that someone, anyone, would come in and scoop the child up to offer him comfort. Resigned that no one was coming to her aid, she placed the clipboard down on the supply table next to the table where the baby was waiting, and took a blanket. She lifted the child up onto her shoulder while she spread the blanket open on the table, and he stopped crying. Cuddy's chest filled with air that she blew out slowly, pleased that the crying had ceased. She put the baby in the middle of the blanket on the table, and he immediately began to cry again. Wrapping him up in the blanket, she brought him cautiously closer until he was settled tightly next to her body, supported by one arm.

Cuddy looked down at the child in her arms and her brow furrowed, House could feel the tension from her. She did not want to hold that baby. Picking up her clipboard to shift her attention away from the boy, she put a stoic, professional look on her face, and looked over her work, remaining coolly disengaged, although unable to repress the almost instinctive sway back and forth that her body adopted to ease the child's discomfort. She had succeeded; she was completely ignoring the drive to nurture that she often felt in such situations.

House was impressed as he watched, seeing her ability to disconnect, to disassociate from the unpleasant feelings and continue on with her work, all while he could see the underlying ache. She was winning her battle, will defeating nature, resolve besting instinct, outright determination crushing want. He watched Cuddy systematically extinguish her maternal stirrings. Her jaw set confidently and her resolve seemed impenetrable.

Then with one, tiny, innate reaction from a six pound, hours-old infant, her strength broke.

When the child brushed against her warm body, he turned, rooting hungrily toward her breast, mouth wide open, fists and legs jerking with need. The determination melted slowly from Cuddy's face, the pain of her own broken dreams evident in her expression. The clipboard clattered to the ground, the few papers that weren't fastened, fluttering more casually to the ground. She wrapped her free arm around the baby, both wanting to coddle and comfort the child, and move him away from her as her entire body yearned for a connection to a child of her own. Her mind flashed to needful fantasies, allowing her imagination to tinker with the idea of what it would be like to hold her own child in her arms. Her ache echoed resoundingly through her entire body when the intern rushed back in the room.

"Dr. Cuddy," the intern practically shouted, "I'm so sorry you got stuck in here doing this."

The awkward young man practically pulled the baby from her, and House could see the battle, the moment where part of her wanted to hold the baby and refuse to let go, and part of her wanted to get as far away from the child as she could. The sensible part, of course, won out, and she surrendered control of the squirming infant to the intern, and almost ran from the room. Her sadness melded with frustration when she almost ran directly into the chest of House, who looked at her with a calmly perplexed expression. "Get out of my way," she said angrily, "There's an emergency."

"In a hospital? No way," he joked.

She scowled up at him, her eyes just barely red, but her lip quivering slightly, "I have a _job _that I actually _do_. Get out of my way…so that I can do it."

"What emergency? You didn't get a page or a call. No one came to get you."

She shook her head with irritation as she moved persistently past him. "I just wanted to know why?" he asked as he followed her down the hall.

She flung her arms at her side. "Can we do this later, House?" she asked, but the question was largely rhetorical, since she was already disappearing down the hall.

* * *

She was in her office after gaining her composure, pleased that she didn't allow her tough administrative façade to crack while walking through the halls of her hospital. Her computer was on, she was going for email, knowing there must be something in there that could make her angry, a lawsuit, HR complaint, something else to focus her energy on so her mind was not left to wander. Almost expectedly, she heard her assistant yelling at someone, and then her door was open. There he was, as always. She raised her hand to stop his progress toward her, "I'm asking you, if you have…any professional courtesy, the most minute modicum of respect for me…do not push this right now."

He squinted, half of his mouth twisting with thought, and he turned back to her, extending his hand to produce the clipboard that she left on the floor of the NICU.

Her defenses dropped as she pushed her chair back from her desk, got up, and walked swiftly over, taking the clipboard from his hand, and offering an apologetically sheepish, "thanks," before returning to her desk.

He walked closer, studying her, and deciding to ask his question before she became too angry. "I was wondering why you were giving me next week off."

She almost sighed at the nature of the question, "Are you really going to complain about time off work?"

"No. I'm not complaining. I want to know why."

She tapped her desk testily with one finger. "There's no point in dragging you to a conference in the days before you leave, your schedule was already cleared because of the conference and I…" her face changed. "I want you to have some time to enjoy things in case the procedure goes wrong. Because if it does…I'll really have something to feel guilty about."

He stared, clearly stunned by what she said, and the forthrightness with which she said it. "I'm going willingly. Most…really worthy endeavors…come with huge payouts…and huge risks."

She rubbed her forehead, clearly worried.

"Look, if you don't want me to go…" he began.

"I want you to go…if it's what you want."

"Cuddy…at this point…death is probably better than constant pain."

Her eyes softened with sadness. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

"I did a lot of research this week. Similar trials have yet to lose a patient, unless the person was pretty much dead already."

"It's amazing how you can talk about it like it doesn't impact you personally," she laughed sadly.

She was looking at him, engaged in the conversation. Then he said, gently, "A high compliment…from a woman so adept at disassociation and…a master of making personal things…not personal."

Her eyes tightened for a minute and she made a popping sound with her lips, waving her fingers in a 'stop' motion and symbolically breaking the personal moment between them. She turned to her computer, adopting her board room voice, "I don't care. Take the week off…work every waking hour and sleep in your chair. It's up to you."

"OK," he said, accepting the cooling of the atmosphere, and turning to leave. "Making things less personal…may be good or bad…but it sure helps to get you through. I'm not judging you for it…I just get it."

* * *

Cuddy stomped through the parking lot to her car. It was almost eight that night, and she knew that, on that particular day, she did every last piece of work that she could before heading home. She heard the blip of her car as the locks were released. Opening the door, she tossed her attaché case across into the passenger seat and jerked when she heard a responding, "Ow," and realized that the case didn't go as far into the vehicle as it should have.

She didn't even look over, she knew. "What if I was a mugger? Or a sex fiend?"

"You _are_ a sex fiend," she countered, feeling his grinning answer. "It's a shame that I'm not really all that surprised. I'd just love to know how you got in here."

"I've done way more amazing things than breaking into your car."

She shrugged in agreement.

"Need a ride," he stated nonchalantly.

"Isn't that your motorcycle?" she said, pointing.

"Don't like riding in the rain."

She looked out her windshield and up toward the sky. "You love riding in the rain. _And_ it's not raining."

"It will."

She laughed. "What do you want?"

"A ride"

She started up her car, "Fine. A ride."

He made her stop for food, he had already called in an order. She sat in her car, thumping her steering wheel and realizing that sitting in the dark, being irritated with House, was better than sitting in her own home, and realizing when she looked at her watch that likely, within a half an hour, she would be sitting in her living room. Alone.

He got back in the car and she drove in silence to his apartment. "OK," she said when she pulled up, "I'll see ya."

"When do you leave for that conference?" he asked, making no move to leave her car.

"Two days"

He nodded. "Come on," he said with expectation.

"What?"

"Aren't you coming? You don't, seriously think I can eat this all on my own?"

"I'm going home. I'm tired."

"No you are not," he accused directly.

"I am."

"So…if something goes wrong with this whole experimental deal…and I die…you'll be sitting at my funeral saying to yourself, 'why didn't I at least have one damn dinner with the guy, that I didn't even have to pay for?'"

"You didn't steal money from my wallet?"

"Of course not. That's not how we treat our friends," he said, as if talking to a child.

Cuddy scoffed, "You took the money from Wilson, didn't you?"

"I need to come up with some new tricks if I'm that predictable."

Cuddy actually laughed aloud before she remembered that most of her didn't feel much like laughing.

"Come on, Cuddy," he stated, not loudly, but demandingly.

"I really should be…" Cuddy began, looking around out the window, her eyes settling on the window of his apartment. "You really…want to eat dinner with _me_? You and Wilson fighting or something?"

"It's selfish. I'm concerned your ass is losing fatness."

She thought for a moment, seeming to acknowledge in one part that it _was _a mistake, but opening her door anyway.

She stood nervously behind him while he unlocked the door. He opened it, gesturing her inside with a flourish and noticing the look. "Is it that painful? The thought of eating with me?"

"Look," she said, leaning over the sofa and dropping the food on the seat while he stared blatantly at her butt. "I don't want to talk about my feeling guilty, or trials, or-"

That was the last word she successfully formed. The remaining words were muffled mumbles, because when she turned, House was directly behind her, capturing her face in his hands and her lips with his. His body pressed her backward against the sofa until her lower half ran into the furniture. Initially, her hands were out to the side in surprise and perhaps surrender. Her nearly numb body woke in a frenzy, but there was no denying the eager response of her mouth. She was willingly, urgently, accepting his kiss, and devouring him in return. Her hands, which had been off to the side, moved to his waist, gripping at his shirt to pull him closer.

She could feel, she could actually _sense,_ his response to her every movement: the twitches in his body when she hoisted up so she was almost sitting on the back of the sofa, her one leg slipping seductively behind his, the slight press of his pelvis in response to her movement in kind, the quiver in his body when she groaned her assent.

But much to her disappointment, he pulled away, the hungry attention of his mouth shifting to smaller pecks of his lips, and ending as he ran his thumb across her full, red, lower lip. "I was…thinking about the other day. In your kitchen. I thought maybe I'd just address that now and get it out of the way."

"You thought that would…fix the problem?"

"Yea," he said as they panted against each others lips.

Their hands were both still moving, dragging luxuriously across backs, sides and hips, and he didn't hide his slight grin when his hands slid down to her full ass. "You hungry?" he asked.

And then he stepped away, grabbing the handles of the paper bags that contained their food and walking to the kitchen. She slid down from the sofa, confused, and stunned, knowing that, if he had wanted to, she would have willingly fucked him before they were four feet into his apartment. She adjusted her hair, her mind trying to decide if he just wanted to kiss her, or if he wanted to prove to them both that she wanted him. She became suspicious, her mind expecting the worst, that maybe he was just toying with her, he just wanted to prove how much she wanted him under her calm, repressed exterior. And she did _want_ him.

He came out of the kitchen, first with plates, and then with glasses full of wine that she didn't even know that he would have. And dinner _was_ pleasant, far more pleasant than she had expected. He told her about the Petrified Forest in China, and how the pyramids of Egypt mirrored muted and morphed reflections of the sun's colors when it set that were imperfect reflections that became more beautiful because of their differences from the original.

He was strangely without guard, talking about things that were impersonal in deeply personal ways. So she shared with him moments of childhood, ones that he'd never suspect, of her and Julia playing a prank on their mother that was beyond brilliantly mischievous. He smiled his admiration for her cleverness as a girl, and her careful conscription of Julia as an ally in her dastardly plan. He actually laughed so that she could hear it, a true laugh, and a sound that she immediately committed to memory because she hadn't heard it before, and doubted she'd ever hear again.

The dinner was satisfying, disarmingly so, and while she enjoyed the glass of wine, she was surprised when he brought her a bottle of water when he brought the bottle of wine to refill their glasses. It didn't seem he was trying to encourage intoxication. There was nothing manipulative or sneaky about him during that dinner, and she found herself, not suspecting that she was seeing a different side of him, but rather that she was seeing him more fully. She wanted to capture that moment, to bottle it to save, to remind him of when they were fighting, or to remind her of when she thought that life had few pleasant moments beyond the taste of professional victory.

After they ate, she scooped up their plates, laughing at the last thing he had said while she walked to his kitchen. When she turned, he was standing in the doorway. "It wasn't _his _fault," House said sincerely.

"Whose?"

"The baby. In the NICU."

She was immediately flustered. "What…wasn't his fault?"

"It's just instinct," he said, his finger tracing lines in the trim around the archway separating the two rooms. "A baby, found something warm and soft…that held the possibility of providing him both with what he wanted, and with what he needed…right there against him, brushing his cheek. To him, it was a promise of a full belly…and perhaps a comforting touch. A safe place to find something that feels good…and satisfies needs and wants and instincts alike."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, suddenly flustered while she tried to finish putting the dishes and utensils somewhere acceptable so she could flee the discussion.

"Yes, you do," he said, in a persistent but easy way. "You know exactly what I mean. I'm just saying that…I don't fault him for it. After all, those instincts are supposed to fade after a few months…but if you put them next to my face…"

She folded her arms, giving up her search for a trashcan to toss the dirty napkins in that were crumpled on top of the plates, and just standing still, hoping the moment that felt so perfect a minute ago could somehow return. House walked closer, rounding the tall, block table to the wall she was standing next to. He was near her, far too near again, because now he was in her mind, in her thoughts, and remained achingly absent from her body.

If she would have looked at him, she could have seen that he didn't like the shift in her attitude, he didn't actually want to hurt her, but he did want the truth, for himself as much as her. "I shouldn't have stayed," she said, trying to look unaffected while he approached her.

She brushed her sleeve nervously, uncomfortable being in his apartment, with her guard down, and her feelings so exposed. When he got near, she lashed out, hoping to keep him a distance from her, both emotionally and physically, "This is why I'm here? So you can dissect me? So you can…hurt me?"

He shook his head, accepting the anger that followed.

"Are you gonna shut me up? Kiss me again? Try to see if you can …make me want you so that you can push me away?"

He shook his head, walking closer anyway, his legs feeling heavier simply from the thick tension in the air. "I don't want to dissect you. I want to understand you. I don't want you to shut up. I want you to tell me what you're thinking. And I _definitely_ don't want to hurt you."

He was standing over her, watching her trying to suppress the urge to crawl out of her own skin and get away from the horribly uncomfortable grip that her momentary reality had on her. "It hurt. Didn't it?" he asked barely above a whisper as his hand reached out to her rib, his thumb resting along the side of her breast.

"What are you talking about?" she asked angrily, her voice wavering.

"You know what I'm talking about," he nodded once.

"What do you want? You want me to cry…to look…weak…frail?"

"Pain doesn't make you weak."

"It will to you. You have no idea about how I feel."

"Maybe not. You held that baby and it reminded of you of something you're missing. Like someone cut a big fucking chunk right out of you. And you want to fill that…space…that hollow, empty ache…with _anything_ so that you don't feel it anymore."

She was breathing heavily, tension becoming an entity within the room, pounding through the space between them, her eyes threatening to scowl, but not quite succeeding. She tried to say something, had several false starts, and then she nodded. He almost couldn't see it, it was so slight. But she looked up at him, slightly less concerned with his motivations.

"So…in a paraphrase of your words…you think I'm just some…heartless bastard…someone who can see you in such pain and not feel an ounce of empathy or compassion?"

"It's not the same thing," she said bravely.

"It is. How is it different?"

"The nerve endings in your leg, the destruction of muscle…" she began in clinical, practiced words.

"No," he shook his head. "Don't do that. We just established a common ground. The empty space, the missing…the desire to make that…feeling…go away. For us, these feelings are constant fact. Our needs are…chronically unrequited."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked nervously.

"I told you. I want to understand."

"We have been…the way are…for a long time now. Why _now_?"

"Because you tried to help. You tried to stop the pain. Not from guilt, or obligation…but because you saw it…it made you feel something. I don't get it. I'm not…a friend, if anything, you see me as an enemy, and you ignored that. I don't understand why, and furthermore, I don't understand why…I _like_ it. I shouldn't like it…I should hate it," he stated.

"There's nothing to understand. I told you. I don't want you to hurt."

"I…actually believe you. When I saw you in the NICU…I saw someone else…feeling what I feel…every day."

It was then that she noticed that his hand was still along her side, his thumb stroking gently, his fingers pressed firmly against her side in a way that showed her that he was _there_. "So now I want to fix it."

"I don't want payment. You don't owe me anything, and I'm not…holding this over your head," she answered stiffly.

"I know. If you set me up with that study to gain leverage…to manipulate me, I wouldn't go. And you know I'm just that stubborn. It just makes me…think. I don't want you to feel that way either."

She looked away and then looked back at him. Her eyes met him, the longing and sadness that she felt was there, unhidden and unashamed. She slowly raised herself onto her tiptoes, her hands on his shoulders, she asked for permission. She wanted the following step to be understood, consensual, mutual. The agreement was in his eyes, in the way that his idle hand moved to her side, finding the back of her hip, and in the gentle stoop he took in his posture to meet her. She kissed him, the kiss almost immediately deep, but sensual and slow. There was no need to rush, she hoped. This was supposed to be purposeful, thoughtful, in no way an accident or a reaction.

There was a slight groan in his throat, something involuntary that surprised her due to the sheer honesty, the barriers he lowered to be there in the way that he was. Her hands drifted down from his shoulders, flattened against his chest, feeling the length of his torso, his chest and sides, her hands moving to his back to pull him closer. The way that she was touching him, trying to feel all of him, along with the fact that she may actually want _him_ specifically, was confusing and arousing and entirely thrilling.

Her lips were tugging and sliding against his, she nipped at his lip, and in the next move, smashed her chest into his, no longer attempting to feign disinterest in any way. She pulled him backward toward the living room, her hands still moving everywhere, her mouth still meeting his in ways that seemed to read his mind. They made it a few steps and she pushed him back against the wall, her hands unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt until they were all open and she could push the shirt down off of his shoulders. Her hands were back along his chest, smoothing and skimming down to the hem of his tee shirt. His hands were back on her sides when her fingers and palms slid up under his shirt, and found his warm skin, realizing that she had someone in front of her that she actually wanted, and then she hesitated, "What are we doing?"

"I dunno," he answered, breathless.

One of them always stopped this. They would allow their push and pull, flirtation and rejection, but one of them always knew when to stop their gravitation toward each other, but in that moment neither was willing to fill that role.

She had started everything this time, she was the one hurdling them forward, removing clothes, forcing their bodies more closely together. She was the one encouraging _friction_. So he pulled her close, wanting her to know the seduction was still, after all of those years, completely mutual. He turned them around, pushing her back against the wall while her shoulders shimmied against it, almost climbing up closer to him. His hands moved to the back of her thighs, pulling her pelvis against him. He was so aroused, his ache one of complete desire, wanting her to know how much whatever it was that they were doing was effecting him.

"Do you want me?" she moaned.

He slowed a bit, slightly confused that she would need to ask that question, then when he felt her tense, her meaning became clear. "You're who I'm thinking about," he kissed her collarbone, "who I want to touch," he nipped at her ear, "who I want to taste," he found her mouth again and found her somehow needier, a feat that he didn't believe was possible.

Her eyes met his with a spark of passion. "I want _you,_" she said as she practically lunged toward him, that time, actually removing his tee shirt and reaching down to his jeans.

Her hands clumsily groped for his belt and button, although when he tried to help her, she shooed his hands away. He sighed with relief both because his jeans had become constrictive, and because her hand slipped beneath the elastic of his boxers, her fingers curling around the base of his erection and stroking steadily upward. He couldn't help but look down to watch what she was doing, seeing the delicate curve of her wrist, a body part that he could see every day that he saw her, in this drastically different context made the experience so much more intense.

It was almost surreal, that the object of his desire was standing in front of him, touching him, wanting him. She noticed that he was standing there, watching her, with a look of amazement on his face, which was foreign and endearing. When the reality of what, of who, was in front of him bubbled into his mind, he grabbed her hand and led her back to his room.

Clicking on the bedside light because he wanted to see everything about her, he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her in front of him. He helped her remove her shirt, kissing the inside of her wrist, her shoulder, and along her stomach, he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. His fingers slowly dragged the silky straps down her arms, her breasts finally freed, ample yet firm, and presented beautifully in front of his face. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close to him, and the other slid from the hem of the skirt across her tight, smooth belly, to the rippling of her ribs, up to her breast. Cupping it with one hand, he lapped at the nipple, teasing although she needed no encouragement. Nipping just hard enough to send sparks of sensation through her body, he watched her reaction proudly. When he moved to her other breast, her eyes were watching him when he searched for them, and when he found her urgent desire, he wanted nothing more than to do that to her at every waking moment for the rest of his life. He could feel the urge to both shield her from the pain she was feeling, and to make the emptiness within her whole.

The sound of the zipper opening at the side of her skirt sent shivers down his spine, and he could hear every fiber of fabric as it whooshed and whispered to the floor. "You look…amazing, better than you did before."

He was sitting back, his hands resting on his knees. There were plenty of responses that she could have given, confident, funny or shy, but she said nothing. She bent slightly, enough to kiss him again while she lifted his hands from their places and brought them to her hips. Her impatient assertiveness sent jolts to his already straining arousal and he hooked his thumbs into her panties to drag them down her legs. He grabbed her waist and pulled her down onto him, his opened jeans still in place on his hips, angling her to the side, and flipping her so that she lay sideways on the bed. It was easy to forget exactly how strong he was physically, to be deceived by his limp and his use of a cane, but the way he picked her up so easily, and directed her significantly smaller body, was the perfect reminder that his body wasn't weak at all.

He followed her when she flipped, landing between her legs and shifting downward. His hands opened her thighs, firm and muscular, and like the rest of her, covered in the softest, most inviting skin that he'd ever found. He pressed down to open her legs fully, watching them drop completely down to the mattress. His thumbs pressed and massaged her body, reaching her center. Her hips were twisting, pressing upward already, her hands reaching for him, whispering pleas for contact. The whispered words that finally decimated his resolve were simple, "House, please," the second word dragged out far beyond the syllables or letters that comprised it.

The back of his index finger pulled slowly upward, opening her center to him, and he couldn't believe the degree of arousal she could possibly have for him. His lips and tongue and fingers found each wet fold and crevice, exploring each of the things that made her gasp with desire. He followed the waves of her body, her hips rhythmically pressing up to him and rocking away before rising again to meet him. Her one leg was wrapped around him, her heel pressing down into his back, just above the top of his jeans. The rough dig of her heel into his back, pulling his skin, would have hurt, except at that moment, his body registered no pain. Her other leg was still wide open, the area from her knee to the side of her foot rubbing against the sheet as she wriggled with approval. He reached for her hands, lacing his fingers with hers, pulling them down onto the bed next to her hips so that she couldn't push him away.

He followed the cues from her, really part of the joy of finally finding himself between her legs, experiencing each moan, gasp or exhalation, every dig of her heel, or tightening of her grip. He was trying to keep things going as long as possible, but her body and mind were so tight with sexual tension that it was a more delicate slipping of the tip of his tongue that actually sent her over.

She sat up as far as she could, her fingers still laced with his, her one heel driving down into him and she gasped inward, inhaling until her lungs were fuller than what seemed possible, and then she held her breath. Her body was perfectly tense, every muscle seemed stretched so tautly that he could feel it. Then her head dropped back, and she let out a rough, very female growl as her legs kicked out, her fingers and toes suddenly splaying while she gasped for enough control to manage to breathe air fully back into her lungs.

She collapsed onto the bed as the pleasure pulsed slowly downward while House rested the heel of his palm against her core, not moving, just applying a steady, reassuring pressure. As she sighed she laughed, at ease, "Holy fuck I was right."

House laughed, as he rested his head on her stomach, "What? You need help, Cuddy."

She chuckled, one of her hands resting on her ribs and the other tickling his head, "I was right that…you are absolutely amazing."

"I'm a huge fan of sexual flattery."

"Then you should be an even huger fan of sexual truth," she replied.

When her toe came in contact with the waist of his jeans, she ordered, "Would you take your fucking pants off?"

He chuckled as he complied, slipping his body over hers, feeling her skin's contrast to his. He was still being patient, to the degree that she began to wonder how interested he was in the encounter. She reached between them to grab him, to encourage him to continue, to take her the way she had hoped that he would. The satisfied groan that slipped from him when he entered her perfectly displayed his interest. He hung his head, exchanging tiny kisses as their bodies began to rock even while he willed his to remain still. Their movements were shallow at first while her body still seemed to be twitching from her earlier orgasm, or perhaps from the excitement that seemed to overcome her again. Their desires felt temporarily met, their only existence was in that moment.

His upper body was resting on his elbows and she weaved her hand through his arms so that she could find his hand again. Her other hand found his face, while she kissed the parts of him that she found her lips near, stubbly chin, soft lips, rough cheeks, neck and shoulders, she wanted to touch all of him. Her arms and legs wound tightly around him when she found her body tensing again, and his control began to shrivel, he couldn't wait any longer. She started to whimper, to moan, to find his name on her lips, and he felt indestructible. He rose higher on his arms, feeling her pelvis tip so she could make sure to capture every bit of him that she could, and he began pounding into her. Their bodies moved roughly but still together, with surges and responses that only fed the excitement.

In that moment, there was no pain. There was no loss or emptiness. There was bliss.

His orgasm welled and he didn't even register the way his body moved anymore, all he noticed was the tight wrap she had around him, tiny sensations of her body finding his, and just as he started, she climaxed again, screaming roughly in a way that made their sex seem more feral and visceral, both real and unavoidable. The way she shamelessly enjoyed sex fried his senses.

They couldn't seem to stop touching each other for the remainder of the night. They napped between gropes and orgasms and all-out raw, desperate sex.

By nine the next day, she was still there, and he thought she had lost her mind. "I don't really want you to leave…but did you forget that you care about your job?"

"I'm off today," she yawned. "I needed a day to get ready to go to the conference.

"Right," he nodded while he touched her bare shoulder with his index finger. "So you leave tomorrow…and when you get back, I'll be gone."

"Yea," she nodded. "I'm presenting…"

"I know," he acknowledged.

"I can try to cancel, try to get someone to take my place…"

"Don't, I'd…rather hang out by myself. Maybe I'll fly to Germany a few days early, check out some stuff over there."

The rest of their day together was awkward, filled with words that weren't said and misunderstanding in the air. She kissed him softly before she left, "Call me, and I'll pick you up at the airport when you come back."

"Thanks," he smiled sadly.

"House…" she began.

"We'll figure it out when I get back," he stated. "OK?"

Suddenly the hurt was flowing back over both of them, both scared to say things that would crush their fragile interaction.

She went through her preparations, convinced that he'd creep into her home, but he didn't. She was convinced he'd pick her up to take her to the airport, and again, he didn't. She boarded a plane, checking for any last minute messages, and there were none. The whole plane ride was filled with concern and confusion, wondering how several hours earlier she was in a warm bed, feeling amazing things with someone who mattered, and suddenly she was as alone as she ever was, although she felt it more than usual.

She checked into her hotel and decided that she couldn't possibly sit in a hotel and feel sad when there was a new city in a foreign land just waiting for her to explore, and she had almost a full day to herself before the activities began. She shopped, sampled local cuisine, and decided she was done accepting _less_. Just as she became completely certain that she would do something to really make a change, she saw something that made her look more closely. Strangely, both to her surprise, and meeting her expectation, in an alley some distance away from the hotel, she saw a figure with a very distinctive walk.


	3. The Conference

_A/N-Thank you to everyone who left a review: OldSFFan, IHeartHouseCuddy, jkarr, housebound, KiwiClare, JLCH, TheHouseWitch, lenasti16, jaybe61, Zaydasky, givemekevinbacon, Abby, HuddyGirl, ikissedtheLaurie, Alex, MsStevieCooper, Sam, LoveMyHouse, LittleGreg, newdayz, dmarchl21, Kraw, Suzieqlondon, BJAllen815, ClareBear14, LapizSilkwood, Mon Fogel, BabalooBlue and huddy-marie. Thank you so much for your comments. And to those Twitter buddies who offered their thoughts and support…you guys are awesome! _

_OK, I decided to just finish this one up before going back to Preservation. Sorry to those waiting for the next installment on that one. It will be up right after this one is done. I'm a bit sick and my feeble brain is having trouble trying to do both stories._

* * *

-The Conference-

Cuddy had to admit to an enthusiastic clenching in her heart when she saw him in the distance. All of the disappointment that he didn't sneak into her home, or accompany her to the airport, or call before she left, was quickly forgotten when she realized that he somehow managed to get on a flight and travel over 20 hours to join her. She was just getting ready to call his name, to wave to get his attention, when she was startled by a loud scream. House hadn't seen Cuddy, he was looking through books when he heard the same disturbance, and he trudged down the alley to a spot where several men had gathered.

Unlike the touristy area she was standing in just a few steps earlier, the places around the back alleys were dirtier, seedier, and seemed almost a distant world from most of what she had seen until that point. The men at the end of the alley, who mostly looked like wealthy Westerners, were watching while less refined men brought out a group of young women. An older woman, well-wrinkled and completely callous, collected money while the men selected their partners.

House's eyes were trained on the one woman who was crying and protesting loudly. Cuddy couldn't understand what was being said, but she knew the woman was not a willing participant or employee, and she definitely didn't want to be prostituted. What Cuddy saw next, swiftly ended her happiness. House dug in his jeans for money and limped right up to the older woman, asking her a question. They spoke, perhaps negotiating. Cuddy felt like she was going to vomit. This entire scenario could not be happening. She _knew_ certain things about House, the man she had so recently shared a bed with, and she was convinced that he was not capable of doing what it clearly looked like he may do. There were constant rumors about House and prostitutes, that alone was a difficult thought for her to consider at that moment, but she certainly never suspected that he'd seek out a woman so unwilling. Cuddy's posture was frozen in place, her eyes glued to the events before her while she held confidence that the one person who seemed to understand her pain wouldn't break her heart.

House looked between the old woman and the crying woman, and looked through his pile of cash, slowly counting out a sum of money. The old woman nodded, and the man who was holding the crying woman in place, let her go.

The woman jumped, animated, excited, and charged at House, not with fear or anger, but sheer joy. She flung her arms as high as she could around the significantly taller man's neck. He was instantly pushing the woman away, completely uninterested in her apparent gratitude. She was rapidly saying something to him and he nodded and gruffly offered some advice. He fished around in his other pocket, finding a few bills that he pushed toward her, and saying one final thing in parting, he fled the situation as quickly as he could. While the woman, suddenly understanding her freedom, ran down the street and away from that place like a woman who feared for her very being.

Cuddy watched while House went about his business, returning to the book vendor in the front of one of the buildings, and looking through several works as if nothing had ever happened. He perused a few of the titles, finally selecting two, and handing them to the old man working there. The old man announced the price, and House looked down at the little bit of money he had left. It was obvious the amount was insufficient, and House shrugged and put the books back down, since he couldn't purchase them. Cuddy slid casually next to House, and held out her own pile of local currency to pay for the purchases. She looked up at House, and her hands insisted that he take the money. He took some of the money, folding the rest and tucking it back into her hand. "Don't wave around your money like that, do you want to get mugged?" he grumbled.

He paid for the items, picking up the books and putting them under his arm, the entire time, avoiding her gaze.

He began to walk, and she followed, finally stepping in front of him, and pulling him off to the side.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, her face practically beaming.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied.

She started to smirk at what she thought was a blatantly flirtatious remark, and then he added, "I wanted to get a book. And a hooker."

"I see you found the book. Where's the hooker?"

"I was just on my way to find one, and then I remembered that I had a whole lot of really amazing sex just recently for free. I don't really think I need one right now. Ask again in an hour, sometimes those sorts of urges just pop up out of nowhere."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head and meeting his eyes with obvious interest. She took the books from his hand, and looked at the worn texts, her fingers trailing over the covers softened by age and use.

"I'm not screwing hookers right _now_, so I have some time. I _guess_ we could hang out, since you're already here," he teased, then offered a small grin.

He sighed, shifting nervously.

"What's wrong?" she asked with worry.

"Is it…good that I'm here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…I didn't really give you any options. I'm just here."

"Isn't that…sort of your thing? Showing up when I don't have a choice?" she smirked. "It's practically defined every non-work related meeting we've had for two weeks."

"Want to take me to your hotel? I'll get my own room there."

"You don't have any money," she teased, gently.

"I have credit cards."

Cuddy stepped closer, somehow ignoring the bustling streets around them. She looked up at him with a look that was both tempting and strangely innocent, "If you get your own room, it's going to be so much harder for me to have sex with you."

He responded with a chuckle, "Uh…you…think I flew all this way for sex?"

"I'm really hoping that was at least part of the reason," she flirted.

"I think we're trying to…wait until after the whole experimental procedure thing."

"Don't you want to have sex with me?" she teased, the look on her face and the tone of her voice practically tempting enough to get him to do _anything_.

"That question is so far beyond stupid."

Cuddy smirked at him, taken aback slightly at his mildly insecure behavior, "Do I make you nervous?" she asked, feeling a slight vindication that her nervousness in front of him a few nights earlier was reciprocated.

House scoffed and looked around, avoiding her, deflecting, doing his best to look like a coolly unflappable and slightly disengaged male.

"I _do_ make you nervous," she added. "You've been doing this to me a lot lately. Talking about my body…making…allusions to the fact that we've been having sex to people around the hospital."

"We _have_ been having sex," House countered.

"Just a couple of days ago, for one day, we had sex. You were talking freely about it long before it happened."

"We had sex before that."

"That was a long time ago. It doesn't count for daily bragging rights now."

"Fine. Well, thank you for sleeping with me recently, so that I may now make those comments in more of a current event-ish way."

"You're welcome."

House shifted, looking around. "Is that what this is? Sex? Someone to get off with until we find someone else?"

Then it was Cuddy who was clearly taken off guard. "We didn't figure that out yet. You said…you wanted to figure it out when you got back."

"I shouldn't be here. I'll go," he said, turning quickly.

"Wait," she said quickly, grabbing his arm. "Why do you want to go?"

"Because, I don't…think this is a good idea."

"Why?" she pressed insistently.

"It just isn't."

"Tell me, please tell me what you're thinking."

House shook his head, trying to seem uncaring.

"Fine," Cuddy said, doing her best to steady herself. "You and I can't just…have sex and have it not mean something. Even if we wanted to."

His eyes shifted up to hers, suddenly settling into his spot a bit more, but saying nothing.

"I guess I shouldn't speak for you…I'll speak for me. I care about you. Isn't that…what we proved? Doesn't the fact that we both hate seeing the other one in pain show that? The fact that we want to…make each other feel better?"

House nodded.

She continued, "I hope I'm not…reading too much into this but…you traveled really, really far…for a hooker and a book."

He replied with a soft smirk.

"Why is this so difficult for us?" she asked.

"I dunno."

"We're both emotionally stunted idiots," she laughed. "But what it comes down to…is we don't want to get hurt. I don't want to _just _have sex with you. But _you _said we were waiting to figure it out. I didn't put that topic to rest. You did. Is that what you want from this? You just want someone to sleep with?"

House shook his head.

Cuddy sighed, feeling insecure that she had made a declaration that she _did_ care for him, that what she wanted was more than sex, and he responded with noncommittal nods. "I'm…completely certain that you could find sex in New Jersey…or Germany…if you're here…that says something," she said, forcing a smile.

He watched her, she could see the agreement, but still received no response. She waited, realizing while she looked at him standing there, slightly uncomfortable, exactly how deep her feelings for him ran. She could admit that part of her _liked_ the confident and crude persona he showed everyone, all of her _appreciated_ the brilliant doctor, but the part of him that she really thought maybe she _loved_, was the person she saw when no one else was around. The vulnerability of someone in pain, the compassion of someone helping a woman in distress, the shyness of someone who wasn't nearly as confident as he let on, the honesty of the man she had dinner with just a few days earlier.

She began to speak, without thinking, "You are so…"

He looked at her with confusion, waiting for her to finish her statement. He nodded, waiting for her response, "I am so…"

Then Cuddy looked uncomfortable. She looked down at the ground, and then met his gaze, more hesitantly than earlier, "You're kinda sweet when you're disarmed…and very…attractive…pretty much all of the time."

She seemed stunned, surprised by the honesty of her own words. "Let's go," she said, shoving his books in one of her bags and grabbing his free forearm.

They walked back to the hotel, and it was obvious that his leg was beginning to bother him by the time they reached the lobby. "You're staying with me…right?" she asked cautiously, clearly ready to be hurt by his response.

"Yea, sure," he nodded.

Cuddy looked around, "My god, you don't have any luggage?"

He held up a ticket and walked over toward the service counter. She followed him, smirking, "So you did know which hotel."

"I know everything," he said while he waited for his luggage.

In the distance, a group of doctors appeared, and approached. Cuddy chatted with a few of them when they came over, House hung back by the counter, uncertain if she even wanted to be seen with him, and completely certain that he didn't feel like talking to any of them. One, very well dressed, bleach-toothed doctor asked Cuddy to join them for the opening dinner that night.

She walked over, grabbed House's arm and pulled him toward the crowd, "You guys know Greg House? He runs the Diagnostics Department that you all spent an evening deriding me about when I said I wanted to start it…"

Two of the four doctors nodded.

"It's our single largest source of directed donations. Single. Largest. Starting that department, is one of the highlights of my career. I can't make it tonight, we have plans…but…just so you know…for the purposes of dinner conversation…I guess we can say that overall, it's a success."

"He's welcomed to join us," the doctor with the pearly smile added.

"Ed, that's so nice of you," Cuddy said with saccharine appreciation, "But I'd hate for you to have to spend an evening with a 'sociopathic waste of genius who's entirely devoid of decency,' isn't that…what you said…during that dinner? The same dinner where you also called me a, '_gal_ with potential who will never really make it until she stops constantly trying to push the envelope and accepts certain unfair truths as fact'? I am reasonably sure that's what you said."

"Lisa," Ed said with a chuckle, completely unembarrassed or unruffled by what she said, "Always fighting everything. You'll burn out before you're forty."

"I had the balls to do something different, Ed. People are alive, incurable, on-their-deathbed people."

"At a huge expense," Ed said arrogantly, "is it worth it?"

"This is why people are so jaded by doctors," Cuddy laughed. "We're supposed to be saving people, curing diseases, and you can actually ask if it's worth it?"

"I hope one day, you'll learn. You'll get kicked enough times…and you'll see. No matter how much you want things to be different, or how hard you work to make them different…some apples are just rotten. Right, House?"

House stood for a moment and faced Cuddy, looking at her thoughtfully, obviously taking his time. "Sorry, Ed," he said while still looking at Cuddy, then said to her, "I hope that day never comes. I hope life never leads you to the point where you stop trying and fighting…every insane little battle. Because if it does…you'll be gone."

House's words were simple, direct and matter-of-fact, but Cuddy looked stunned for a moment before she turned to Ed, "We have to go. Plans. But thanks for the invite."

Ed nodded, "Now there's a pair, a girl scout and a psycho."

Cuddy elbowed House's forearm, "Ready?"

They walked to the elevator, and once they were out of sight, Cuddy was walking backwards, practically skipping, "God, I hate him," she announced happily before she hit the button on the elevator.

"I think that you claiming to 'have the balls' to do stuff, only lends credence to my claims of your former life as a man."

"Shut up," she chuckled. Then she turned to House, "Did you mean that…that you hope I don't stop trying?"

He smirked, "Absolutely. If you didn't try, where would I be? You would have given up on me ages ago. Like almost everyone else."

She stared at him, "House…I…" and the elevator door dinged open. A flurry of people stepped out, and others crowded on after them as House slipped back to one side and Cuddy moved next to him.

They rode up with a crowd of unknown passengers, Cuddy with her arms tightly crossed, House leaning heavily on his cane. She extended her fingers, reaching out to rest them on his arm. Her touch was light, so feather-light that it was almost unnoticeable. It was strange, an oddly sweet expression of affection that was not solely sexual.

When they reached their floor, they pushed and wormed their way out of the crowded elevator, and went down the hall to their room. "Why did you defend me to those morons?" he asked.

Cuddy opened the door, and pulled him inside, "Because you're worth defending," she said, while she hugged him and reached up to kiss the scratchy skin under his jaw.

He was torn between the feeling of her and his own confusion until he felt his leg seizing, "I gotta sit down," he mumbled.

She smiled, and he didn't find disappointment in her eyes, like he had expected, feeling his own irritation at a body once so fit, reduced to one at the mercy of one piece of one limb. She led him over to the bed and got the door when a bellboy delivered House's luggage to the room. When she turned back to him, she could see the pain in his eyes that he tried to dismiss through will alone.

"Get up a minute," she ordered.

He got up while she moved pillows and removed the duvet, watching her as he stood motionlessly. She pulled off his shirt and told him to kick off his shoes, which he did, and then waited.

"Lie down. Flat," she said.

"Why?"

"Do you honestly think that something bad is going to come from me asking you to do that?"

He got into the bed, his hands lifting his aching leg as he settled down into the mattress.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Isn't it obvious," she teased, "I'm gonna wait until you fall asleep and dress you in women's clothing…and maybe some makeup." She knelt next to him on her own feet. "Stop being so suspicious."

House looked up at her, still a bit apprehensive. "OK," she said, "I do yoga and my instructor showed me some pressure point stuff. Let me try it."

"That stuff is complete crap."

"Humor me. Maybe enough to get you through this week with a little less pain."

"Fine," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes, his hands folded over his stomach.

She took his hands, unfolding them and moving them to his sides, palms down flat on the bed, and she reached down to uncross his legs. She moved one arm out to the side and started feeling the area between his neck and arm, and said, "This might hurt for a second, but…"

"Ow," he yelled loudly, his head lifting up from the pillow as he scowled at her, but she kept steady pressure, and she watched while his eyebrows relaxed, his forehead unwrinkled, his jaw released, and his head drifted back down. When she let go, his eyes went to hers, and he sighed his relief, "Wow."

"I know, right? They do that one on me a lot. For tension. I figured maybe it would help with the muscles a little."

"Yea," he said, his whole voice devoid of strength.

"Probably didn't help your leg much though."

"Sort of," he said with a smile, but he could already feel the sensation of clenching muscle flooding back.

"We'll try some different ones, and see what helps."

She patiently tried different touches and varying degrees of pressure while he watched with both wonder and curiosity. It was both fascinating and a bit disconcerting to have someone spend such time and attention on helping him, a person who wasn't being paid or compensated in any way. She was methodical, making mental notes, attempting to study and learn him with the same attention he often paid to people. "You doing OK over there?" she asked after he was silent for a while.

"Well, you don't have the talents of Candie, the six-toed hooker, but…" he teased, but he could see the momentary hurt in her eye. "I was kidding," he defended.

"Oh, I know," she tried to play off her hurt.

Her reaction, the fact that she could in some way so easily be hurt by him, was completely indicative of how emotionally invested she was, although it was difficult still for him to admit. The reaction, coupled with her desire to care for him, and the overwhelming desire he had to return that, was a thundering indicator that he was far more invested in whatever was developing between them than he wanted to admit.

"That was really intense today, with those prostitutes," she said. "That one woman, why was she crying?"

"She's no prostitute…prostitutes aren't usually trying to _avoid_ making money," House answered, "Her father owed a debt to the lady of the house. Gambling or drugs…or both."

"Oh my god," Cuddy said, covering her mouth.

"Yea. So…her own father handed over his daughter to pay off his debt…figured she could work it off easier than he could."

Cuddy stared at him, "Are you serious?"

"That…is not prostitution…it's indentured servitude."

"So what happened, you bought her for the day and she's running off or…"

"I paid off the debt."

"You paid off his debt?"

"Yea…that's what the girl was there to do. To you or I, it wasn't that much money. So, I paid it off…I told the old woman that it was easier to take the money from me all at once, than to keep an eye on the girl all of the time to make sure she didn't run off. The old woman was happy…she got her money."

"What happens the next time the father racks up a debt?"

"I mentioned that. The woman had an aunt an hour's train ride from here…far away from daddy. I suggested going there. Hopefully, she took my advice."

"That's…so unbelievable."

"Yea," he nodded. "Fucked up, right? You have people who will sell their own kids, neglect them, use them for personal gain…and then you have other people, who would never hurt a kid…who just can't have them…or at least don't have them yet. It's…very fucked up."

He was staring at her, seeking truth, and she nodded, "Yea, it sucks."

"Beyond sucks…but, I guess…it's the way things are."

"So you…_saved_ her."

"No," he said, closing his eyes and pulling her hand back onto his chest.

She smiled down at him, her finger tracing along his ribs. "You did. You always brag about saving lives…why ignore this one?"

"I dunno," he answered. "It's different."

"What you did today…in that alley…was beautiful."

She looked down at him with a look of undeniable affection, and she could feel the easy way it was being returned.

"For some reason, you stopped telling me what was going on with you…with the IVF. You just…decided not to go forward with it, or was it unsuccessful?" he asked.

"House…" she said, shaking her head. "It doesn't really matter."

"It does matter. You matter. You said I matter…why can't you matter?"

"That's very sweet…" she began.

House looked away, suddenly quite irritated, "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not."

"You act like you want me to tell you how I feel, and then when I try to, you disregard what I say."

"I wouldn't."

"You are. You just did. You seem to…want to accept me…but then you can't accept that you mean something to me? You can handle me talking about your amazing ass or your perfect tits but, you can't handle me saying that you matter?"

He was so vehement, it was clear how important this was to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"If you don't trust me enough to talk about it anymore then fine. Just fucking say so."

"It isn't that."

"Then what is it?"

"If we both matter…then we have to figure out what to do with that. And then this whole…thing…gets scary."

"I know," he answered.

"The IVF…" she began, and then trailed off.

"That…packet you left at my place…the envelope. Had my whole medical history. Specifically, it had…scans, information about my infarction, the whole background. You saw what was bothering me, collected the relevant information, and moved forward with a solution. I don't have the advantage of having all of the facts…so…how can I help you?"

"If we let each other in…"

"I know."

House could practically see Cuddy's head swimming with questions. "I don't want to get hurt," she said.

"Me neither."

"I tried…IVF," she said, the declaration bursting out more loudly than she'd intended. "It didn't work. Got close…then didn't. I stopped trying."

House nodded. "Got close?"

"I was pregnant and the pregnancy failed. I'm sure you already know that. Our walls at the hospital…actually do talk."

House smiled, "I wanted to know for sure…from you. So…who took you for the IVF?"

"No one," she asked, confused.

"You went by yourself?"

"Yea, of course."

"When you had the miscarriage…your sister came around?"

"No…why is any of this…relevant? I know how to call a cab when I need one."

"Why does everyone think _I'm_ the crazy loner?"

Cuddy chuckled, "You are a crazy loner."

"You are too. Try to take care of everything yourself. Want to go it alone. You are just a crazy loner who's polite to people. You have them around, function well when surrounded by the masses…but when it's personal…when something really hurts…you're alone."

"I guess."

"Why not…tell people what was happening? Why not tell me?"

"Last time we discussed this you reminded me that I was a failure at motherhood, and that it was for the best. Do you want me to go willingly and give you further proof that you're right? More…ammunition to use against me when you're angry?"

Like so many hurts between them, they often just let them settle into the past, overlooking, ignoring rather than addressing, but it was easy to see the hurt still in her eyes.

"You know what you were putting me through when that happened?" he asked softly. "The pain I was in…"

"I know…yet another way that I failed. You can make a list, you probably have one."

"I'm not trying to make a list. I actually am sorry," he muttered softly, "I wouldn't have hurt you like that if I wasn't in so much pain."

"We keep these fucking lists, House. You and I both. We don't ever say anything. We hold these lists close to our chests and use or grudges to keep us warm. And I don't want to do that anymore."

There were tears in Cuddy's eyes and then he felt nauseous. "Cuddy…" he said, and found no answer. "Cuddy?"

She was shaking her head, desperately trying to keep her cool, but it was as if years of hurts were flowing through her mind. The first tear that dropped stabbed right through his center. These tears weren't superfluous or easy, they were tears hard fought for escape. Tears filled with ages of sadness and loss. "I'm not worth crying over. Ever. I'm just a hurting, angry asshole," he offered, wanting to stop her pain.

"You _are_ worth it. I can't…make myself not care about what you think and what you say. If you are those things, I'm just a cold, rigid bitch," she responded. "Isn't that what you see?"

"No," he argued, hating the sight of her pain once again. "Maybe sometimes," he added as she laughed sadly. "We're both cold and bitter, but, we're that way because…life has taught us to be that way. If we aren't careful and guarded, we're just going to get hurt. Every time we try…it happens."

Cuddy hadn't answered, she was still desperately fighting the tears, and House hated the feeling of his responsibility for them. "Cuddy, say…something."

He had no idea what to do with her sadness, so he kissed her. It was the first time their lips had met since she left his apartment. Since they met up again, they were flirting with playful touches and she'd kissed his jaw, but when their lips met, they both felt a surge that resulted from an event that, on some level, they never thought would happen again. It was on both parts a move to seek better feelings and cure bitter hurts.

She found it suddenly easy to get lost in the precise movements of his lips and the pleasant yet demanding attention of his tongue. She slipped down along the bed so they were on their sides, facing each other. Their pace was slow, with uncertain, tiny steps forward because each was uncertain about how far all of this would go. He tasted her mouth and chin, shoulders and neck, and watched her face when he slipped his fingers under her shirt to her ribs. She sighed with need and approval when his fingers found her nipple through the slick fabric of her bra. She sat up, unsnapping her bra and tossing her shirt to the side.

They were both shirtless, but otherwise clothed, still so uncertain and for some reason, slowly rounding the bases still felt amazing, even if it meant that they wouldn't have sex. It was almost like experiencing a person for the first time, exposed torsos sharing caresses and presses against each other, lips shyly seeking skin and approval. At this pace, their eyes were often locked, and when they parted, they found each other again. So different from their needy encounters from a few days earlier, they were savoring each taste.

Their physical bodies were consumed by desire, but their minds were each refusing to let things clamor to a thunderous end too quickly. She loved the contrast between the softness of the center of his palm with the rougher edges of his fingers and the way the roughness made them hesitate at places on her skin as they passed. She marveled at the way his hands could cover such large sections of her body, his open hand grabbing her tiny waist before sliding up to cover the entirety of her breast beneath his hand. His other arm, was tightly wound around her, trapped between her and the mattress, his hand opening on the small of her back or moving to her shoulders to pull her closer. She could feel how turned on he was, pressing against her with what must have been almost painful hardness, there was no denying his desire for her, but the connections, the reassurance, was more important. That fact was not lost on her.

He almost couldn't have enough of the feeling of her palms traveling his body, the way her one leg easily looped over his hip and her foot wound around, settling under his upper leg. Then there was the way her hand on his back wrapped around his muscles while her fingers dipped down against his spine. She kept looking at him, her tears fading as she enjoyed the connection they were making. Tears turned to little gasps and sometimes giggles, and their focus was on something both giddy and compassionate.

He reached down, his hands firmly grasping down the backs of her thigh to her knee, and then pulling up along the fabric at the front of her leg. His finger and thumb reached for the button of her tight jeans and she nodded her consent, her eyes flaring with desire. He opened her jeans and tugged them down her hips just enough so he could touch her. He pushed her panties to the side, his finger easily finding her opening. She was so wet, so turned on, that she felt as if she hadn't been near an orgasm for years. Two of his fingers pushed slowly into her, without the slightest hesitation, while her arms extended around him, tightly against either side of his neck. He was moving slowly, pulling out until the tips of his fingers barely touched her warmth and then pushing evenly back in, and once his fingers were completely hidden in her, he'd rock his hand, pressing the heel of his palm against her before removing his fingers again. She was noisy, with a higher pitched gasp upon each rock of his hand. The fifth time, when he began reaching into her again, he could feel the rapid pulsing beginning inside her, and he pulled his head back to watch her expression while she came. Her mouth was open, her hands moving to the caps of his shoulders, her short, perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his skin. He moved in and out of her as smoothly as he could, so he wouldn't over stimulate her. He didn't want to stop touching her, and she fought the need for more, and less, while she rode out the winding and releasing of her body.

Her shoulders hugged up tightly, and she wrapped her arms more fully around his neck. She was still rocking her hips toward him, and he confidently and proudly asked, "Do you want more?"

She smiled at him softly and said, "I do…want more."

Her voice lacked the sexually charged tone that he'd expected, clearly suggesting things beyond their current encounter. He nodded, "Me too."

Together they had their remaining clothes off quickly, and she climbed up his body and hovered over him. He could feel the heat and wetness of her body just barely touching him, and part of him felt as if he might just lose all grasp on his sanity if he didn't feel her on him soon. She braced her hands on his hips, teasing him with faint passes of her body over his and he said, almost desperately, "This is not gonna last."

She stopped for a second, her overly concerned mind fearing that for some reason he meant the two of them wouldn't last, until he nodded, clarifying, "This round…this round is not going to last."

She seemed relieved that the mood of affection between them wasn't suddenly lost, and pleased to have his own desire wound so tightly already. She lowered her body down onto his and he groaned his relief, "Oh, thank god."

His foot was bouncing, an attempt to distract the sensation in his body that was centered entirely on the meeting of their bodies. He wanted every ounce of control that remained, but found their foreplay, their mutual tease, had gone on far too long. She leaned forward, with him still heavy and thick inside her and she whispered, "There's always the next round."

He nodded while she lifted up and then steadily pushed back down.

"And maybe tomorrow?" She asked while she repeated her movements.

He nodded again, his hands moving to her ass so he could pull her even more tightly against him, wanting to be totally lost in her in every way. Part of her did realize that she was coming perilously close to a discussion of commitment in the middle of sex, and then he muttered, "I might have some time…next month too."

She smiled as she picked up her pace, his hands on her ass helping her to move more quickly because he was left with nothing at that point except his complete need for her. His orgasm took over his body, everything in him flooding toward her, his body, his heart, and, if such things existed, his soul.

"You are so fucking hot," he mumbled while she slumped down over his body.

"You are," she answered with a wide smile.

"I'm serious, Cuddy, you are…ridiculously hot."

They recovered for a few minutes, and then she said, "A woman shouldn't…hint about a relationship when she's riding a guy."

House grinned, "It is true that my resolve is very weak at moments like those. It's a good time to pounce."

"What about now…what if I asked you now?"

"The answer would be the same. Tomorrow, next month."

"This isn't just…sex…I still don't think it can be…not for me."

"We both knew that already," he answered. "If we thought it could be…we would have been doing this all along."

"I want to come with you," she said as she rested her head against his chest.

"Next round," he answered, yawning.

She laughed, "That's great, but I meant to Germany…for your procedure. Should I have asked you about that back when you were distracted?"

"You don't have to do that," he said, and could see the worry responding in her immediately.

"I want to."

"Alright," he nodded. "If you change your mind, you don't have to."

"I want to," she said, more seriously.

"OK," he agreed, a little hesitantly.

"I need to be there. I want to be there. I mean, I think we are…sort of…dating. Right?"

"I don't want to sit and watch you fall in love with another man…get married, have kids…while I'm sitting there…wishing I was that man. And I don't know if I can just move on with another woman…if there's a chance that you want to be _that_ woman."

* * *

Cuddy was scandalously missing from nearly every morning session during the conference, except for the one where she sat on the panel. She missed more opportunities to "grow and network" than House thought she was physically capable of missing.

The final day of the conference, when attendees were just entering the banquet hall for their breakfast buffet, House and Cuddy stood at the front of the hotel, waiting for a taxi that would take them to the airport. Once at the airport, they'd board a plane, and after a brief layover in London, they'd be in Germany, where a representative from the hospital would meet them so that House could begin the experimental procedure designed to eliminate, or at least alleviate, his pain.


	4. The Procedure

_A/N-Thanks to all of this chapter's reviewers: IHeartHouseCuddy, ikissedtheLaurie, jkarr, lenasti16, IWuvHouse, JLCH, LoveMyHouse, housebound, OldSFfan, BabalooBlue, jaybe61, bmax, Byte size, dmarchl21, Suzieqlondon, Mon Fogel, Tori, Reader, Abby, HuddyGirl, Alex, Lapiz Silkwood and BJAllen815 the comments on this story were really thoughtful...thanks so much.  
_

_As with all of my stories, I'm a complete medical moron…if your only medical experience is from when your best friend's cute kid brother went to the doctors once in the late 80's…you probably know more than me. __ I apologize in advance for any medical-related mistakes in the story._

_Thanks to all of you who were willing to entertain this whole Season 3 AU idea. I wasn't sure if anyone would be interested when I started last week, so I really appreciate your feedback in all of its forms. I'm probably switching to short 4-10 chapter stories, once 'Preservation' is done. It's much more manageable for me. (Preservation will be up within the next few hours, and back on its regular schedule. Thanks for your patience.)_

_***I was trying to write a one chapter Epilogue for Cuddy, and once I started writing, I realized I couldn't do it in one chapter, plus I received a lot of feedback about things people wanted to see. I will write another, short story that will serve as the sequel to try to resolve Cuddy's piece of sadness.  
_

* * *

-The Procedure-

The facility in Germany felt, looked and smelled brand new. Everything was state of the art, and House joked that he could see Cuddy drooling over every last piece of equipment. They nervously sat in the consultation room when Dr. Marie Hoffmann flitted in with profound stoicism and an aura of extraordinary social ineptitude. She came to the front of the desk, her petite hand extending in a perfunctory but firm handshake before she sat down. She was the lead neurosurgeon and the doctor conducting the study.

She explained to them the nature of the procedure, and all of the risks associated with it. The most pressing concern with procedures involving the brain was always infection, but stroke, paralysis and death were always possible risks. The goal, however, made any slim risk seem worthwhile. If things went well enough, his days would be largely pain free.

"How soon after the procedure will we know if it worked?" Cuddy asked.

"Almost instantaneously, once the anesthesia wears off, we'll evaluate. We will use as little anesthesia as possible, while keeping him under, because we'll want to bring him up and get him talking right away. Test cognitive function. There's always a risk of death when dealing with the brain, or anesthesia, but since you've had surgery in the past, we know you have not had adverse reactions to the medication before. There is also always the risk of loss of motor function, memory loss, or other brain damage. However, I…am an excellent surgeon. I do not make…sloppy errors."

House smiled at the woman's oozing confidence, feeling reassured by her certainty, rather than put off by her cockiness.

"You have a room you can both stay in for today. Dr. Cuddy, those rooms are provided for family members who have traveled to accompany loved ones. You are welcomed to the use of the room for the duration of the stay. In the morning, we will move you, Dr. House, to prep. After the procedure, you will spend a few hours in recovery, and twenty-four hours under very close observation, our own ICU. If all goes well, you will be back in the guest room for a few days before you are released entirely so we can make daily evaluations. We ask that you avoid extensive travel for at least a week after that…but recovery is short…neurosurgery…has made gigantic leaps forward this century." The surgeon smiled proudly, "Thus far, results have been…promising."

House pulled out his bright orange bottle of Vicodin, and tipped a pill into his mouth, dry swallowing. He had been taking his Vicodin, but the last week, it didn't seem it was with as much frequency, or at least it seemed that he wasn't flaunting it, if he was taking it as often. Hoffmann held out her hand to take the bottle, "We need to administer all medications prior to surgery."

He handed the bottle to Hoffmann willingly, comforted by the fact that he had plenty of pills hidden in other places. He looked at Cuddy, took a rough swallow, and she could feel exactly what he was thinking. He wondered what would happen if he didn't need Vicodin for his leg anymore.

* * *

The room where Cuddy could stay to await his eventual release, and where House could spend the night waiting for his surgery, was comfortable and homey as far as hospital accommodations went. "Don't let the patients at home hear about this…they'll stage a coup," House warned.

Cuddy smiled while she looked through a book on the table about the research hospital, the facility designed for just such purposes only two years earlier. "Do you want me to stay at the hotel tonight so you have some space?"

"No way. It's good…you can come back here tomorrow night, you don't have to stay in some hotel room. I'd ask you to stay in my bed in the ICU with me…but they can probably see that you're completely hot for me, and they'll be scared you'll molest me while I rest."

"That would be great for my career, molesting post-op patients in the ICU."

"You survived the whole…coma guy scandal. I'm sure your spin machine worked overtime that week," he teased.

"Hard to resist a man who never argues," Cuddy countered.

"I personally do not mind being molested by hospital administrators. I'll sign a consent form."

Cuddy held up the book she was perusing, and showed him a picture on the back page, "This is the administrator here…"

"Oh, damn!" he exclaimed with loud disgust, "OK…so not _all_ hospital administrators are quite as…you know…you as…you."

"At least she's a woman," Cuddy commented.

"Are you really sure?"

"Great, now I'm feeling _really_ jealous," she teased, "That whole, 'you're a man' pickup line worked on me…does that mean you're…into her?"

House smirked, "No, you laid your claim first…branded me as your own. That still hurts, by the way."

Cuddy rolled her eyes but giggled softly until a knock came at the door, and a woman walked in with a package of materials. House sneered when she said she was a "guest services coordinator," who would see that his needs were met and his concerns were addressed.

House's response was less than appreciative when he told her he just wanted to, "Get this shit over with in the hopes that every waking moment won't be filled with agony."

The coordinator seemed accustomed to such responses, probably because she was used to dealing with people in a lot of pain. She held out a menu, "Sir, we'll provide all food and beverage until after your procedure tomorrow. Please select your last meal."

The blood drained from House's face as he looked at the woman, "Always expected that I'd be wearing shackles when they told me that."

"Your last meal for today…in preparation for your surgery. And no food or drink after midnight. Here is some paperwork for you to fill out."

Cuddy continued to read about the facility while House filled out paperwork, quickly getting frustrated with things he simply didn't care about. Cuddy took the papers, using her talents, much to his appreciation. It was an interesting exchange, Cuddy displaying things she knew about him that he had no idea that she knew, while he offered the answers to the things she didn't know.

"Your parents?" Cuddy asked, while her pen hovered over the paper.

"What about them?"

"Do you…want to leave contact information for them…in case…?"

"Nope"

"Do you want to call them tonight?"

House ceased his pacing for a moment, staring upwards, "Nope."

Cuddy shifted uncomfortably.

"If I croak, entirely or just…mentally…everything you need is in my bag. Mom's number, stuff like that…you and Wilson will know what to do with the rest. And I do not want to be left on life support. You know where I stand. All of the paperwork is done for that, so you don't have any decisions to make, just make sure they follow my instructions."

"I will," Cuddy nodded, fighting the emotions that were welling in her. This was the part he dreaded about having her with him for this procedure. He wanted her to be there when he woke up, telling him that everything went fine. He wanted her to be there when he was moved to a normal room, and when they cleared him to finally leave so they could go home. He didn't want to have to watch her worry about what could happen.

Sitting there, watching her silently fret, he realized the strangeness of his situation. The fact that, only weeks earlier, he would have signed any consent forms or waivers without the slightest hesitation, because he didn't really care about the outcome. A few weeks earlier, part of him probably would have been hoping for the worst. Suddenly, he was sitting in a hospital, far from home, with Cuddy. He had woken up next to her every morning lately, and he hadn't had something like that in quite some time.

She was clicking the pen on the desk nervously, clearly worrying about the uncertainty of the next few hours. He felt overcome, as she was, with the sudden feeling that he did not want to die. At that moment, he wished he'd never die.

He wanted the chance to pester Cuddy into having sex with him in her office, he wanted to brag to Wilson that he, that _House_, was actually good enough for her. He wanted to walk into the hospital at PPTH on the day of their return, holding Cuddy's hand, escorting her past the nurses' station and leering desirously at her before she disappeared into her office for the day. He wondered how his fellows would react when she'd charge into his office to berate him for an insanely risky move once they knew about the change in their relationship. Most of all, he wanted to be a reason for her to leave work on time once in a while.

Then there was the second prong of this whole adventure: the possibility of life without chronic pain. The entire concept seemed nearly unfathomable. Pain, or at best, discomfort, was a constant. It was the foundation that every single thing he did was built on. Every decision that he made, case that he solved, moment he lived, had that one element present. He wondered who he'd be. His personality had pretty much always been as it was, little had changed, but there was a rougher, more despondent undertone that came from always feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

When he emerged from his thoughts, he saw Cuddy walking around the room, inspecting pieces of art on the walls and the lamps by the bedside, and for a moment, he wanted to throw the whole damn trial away. Was it worth the risk? The possibility of a life that wasn't driven by pain was tempting, but the thought of losing everything, just when he had the smallest taste of it, seemed cruel. And to Gregory House, life was often cruel. Beneath it all, he felt he could be a better man, for both of them, if he wasn't battling the never-ending ache.

"I hand these things to people all of the time," Cuddy said, shaking her head while she pointed at the consent forms. "I tell them to read them carefully, I explain the risks with as much…compassion and understanding as I can. I tell them…that I understand their concerns…and that…the risks are not to be taken lightly."

House nodded, pondering the conflicts they'd had over consents and paperwork.

"In the end," she said, "I don't understand. I don't know what…Joe Smith means to his wife Mary. I don't know that she's been sleeping next to him for thirty years…and how she would feel…the first few nights going to bed alone if he died. When twenty-something, first-time parents hand me their two year-old for surgery, I don't know all of the…sleepless nights they've endured, the love they've poured into this child…the world they've built around him. You really never can…because what is really at stake, changes depending on the patient and those invested in the patient."

House stared ahead, his question on his lips before he could filter it, "So…when I get this done tomorrow…when the forms are signed and completed, and Hoffmann bores a hole in my head and tries to change my life in ways she doesn't even comprehend…what is it that she doesn't know about us. About why you are there, waiting for me to come out?"

It was a bold question, a sharp and demanding request to know how she felt about these risks, and how she felt about him, not in canned terms popularized by movies, but real examples of ways he was valued as a presence in her life.

Cuddy looked toward the bright and hopeful piece of abstract art on the wall and began, "She doesn't know…the way I had the hugest crush on you when I met you…like a…crush on someone that you have from afar, who isn't even real. She doesn't know that you were the first guy…to introduce me to the amazing world of multiple orgasms all those years ago," Cuddy smirked over her shoulder, then dropped her head, her tone more somber. "She doesn't know…how badly it hurts me to see you in pain, day, after day, after day. She doesn't know how much I'd miss walking past your office and seeing you throwing pencils into a trash can, or bouncing your tennis ball…taunting your fellows into moments of brilliance while you record the possibilities on your white board. She doesn't know…the battles we've fought, the hurdles we've crossed. How scared we really are to actually care about each other. She doesn't know that we ran…the world's longest race…and we just found the starting line…"

"A complicated history to easily explain"

"And she doesn't know how badly I hope that you make it. How empty I'll feel…if you are gone…when we were just…doing something completely different, which…is working surprisingly well. She doesn't know that…I want to take you home. I want to get…used to having you around. I want your presence in my personal life to become…normal. In my living room. In my car. In my bed. I'm not ready to let go, House. This…cannot end here."

While he watched her struggle with her feelings, struggle with the truth of her uncertainty, a realization hit him, something that he realized he actually knew all along. All of their attempts to seek comfort in each other's arms were about things far beyond sex and comfort. The more he thought about it, the more he acknowledged that he had always felt that way. In the world, there was sex and there was making love, and there was no doubt what he and Cuddy were doing, regardless of what they verbalized.

It shouldn't have really surprised him, but it did. He knew without a doubt that he could make her feel good, he knew he was good in bed, but it seemed that she liked all of the things associated with amazing sex. In the next moment, he realized something that he never thought could be true: Cuddy _loved _him.

It felt presumptuous to claim, but it seemed painfully true. All facts pointed to the same unavoidable outcome. He craved the possibility that those words could move from her lips as beautiful pitch-perfect sound waves, through the air to his ears, and eventually settle inside _him. _Every bit as much as he wanted to hear them, he was also scared to hear them. He knew his feelings for her, he knew what they had been for a while, but saying them before his procedure seemed like acknowledging his own concern that he may be incapable of voicing them later. He couldn't help but wonder if any such declaration from him would actually make it harder for her if things went terribly wrong. Wanting to say something that would let her know how much he cared, would perhaps convey his desire to make her happy, he flippantly said, "So what does a woman like you do if she ends up…knocked up by a guy like me?"

It was a joke, an attempt to broach a complicated subject in a casual and non-threatening way, but that was not what Cuddy heard. She heard what she had feared on and off since they started their affair. She worried that he thought she was using him as little more than a momentary dalliance, and possibly a sperm donor. Cuddy thundered toward him, immediately angry and worried, "You think I'd try to trap you like that? Get…pregnant on the sly? Or do you just think that I'm using you…supporting you right now so that I can use you to father a child later and toss you aside? After all of this, do you really think I'd…use you like that? Do you really think that little of me?"

House watched with surprise, and then said, "I…do not think that. I never even considered any of those things to be true. I know your feelings are genuine…if I'm able to think that someone's feelings for me are genuine…they must be. It's not my default assumption. And I also know, that you know, that I'd willingly take part in helping you have a child. So there's no reason to trick me."

"So why question me?"

"I wasn't. I was just wondering what you would think about you and me, or maybe what _other_ people would think about you and me, dating…having a kid…and if what they thought would impact your decision."

"What did you mean when you said, a woman like me and a man like you?"

"A well-respected professional…and a man who spent a night in jail for contempt very recently."

"Some…people stopped respecting me when I hired you. More of them stopped respecting me when I kept you on. But I think I've built a reputation both around that, and beyond that. I don't think us dating impacts that at all. Besides…a lot of people already suspect that there's something between us."

"OK," he answered calmly, "But…what about the kid thing. What about…if I get this whole procedure done, and I'm…virtually pain free. What about addressing your…missing chunk?"

"I don't know."

He flopped on the bed and sunk his head back into the pillows.

"If I'm OK…I'll do it," he said calmly.

"Do what?" Cuddy asked as she sat on the bed.

"I'll have a kid with you. We'll…fix your missing chunk."

"That's really…amazing…and so touching…"

"Touching, but…"

"And it's a tremendous sacrifice…"

"Trust me, it's no sacrifice, I enjoy having sex with you every bit as much as you think."

Cuddy finally smirked a bit. "At this point, a kid with you is about more than conception."

He swallowed hard, and smiled. She sat down next to him, "Haven't you noticed how happy I am to have you in my life…in this way? Not as a doctor…or colleague or employee. But, just you, in my life."

"OK, so you like hanging around me, but I'll never fill that hole. An immature boyfriend is not the same as having a kid."

"And a baby, could make this whole thing that we're building a _lot_ more complicated. I still want kids. That's something that I want in my life someday. And…if you want a relationship with me…as much as I want one with you…it's good if we know where we stand. Kids…religion…thoughts on marriage…they can be deal breakers."

"OK. Shocking as it may seem, I am not OK with religion."

Cuddy chuckled, "I think we're fine on that."

"What about marriage?"

Cuddy grimaced, "I'm not good at marriage."

House laughed, "How would you know?

Cuddy smiled sadly. "I…was once married. It was short. Very, very short. A huge mistake. It is…one of those moments in my life that I really hate to revisit, and I'd really appreciate your discretion. This is not something I advertise. It's…embarrassing."

"You're serious? Who else knows?"

"No one. Not really…I mean…I guess he does."

"Hunh"

"Hunh? Are you…upset that I didn't tell you?"

"More impressed that you've kept it a secret. You _do_ trust me. I'm kind of surprised, Dr. Cuddy, there _are_ more scandalous little moments in your past. I like it."

"It's hard to tell…since I'm perfect and all…" she teased.

"So that leaves kids. I'm not against it. That would be like you being opposed to my pain being alleviated. I can be around. If you still want me to be when that happens."

"If we got there…I'd want us to get there together. And if we don't get there…either because we don't want to, or because I physically can't…I'll be OK. I think I need a life…beyond work. One where I feel like…I'm more than my career. If you are willing to entertain that possibility with me…that means…so much. For now…I'd like to have a _boyfriend_. Just once, I'd like to call in late to work…just to stay in bed with you. I want to…cook you dinner a few times. I want to go to some…stuffy fundraiser…dressed in a…sexy little gown that has you trying to feel me up in the car before we even get there…I know you hate that fundraiser stuff…but I think I could make it interesting for you. I mean I have this whole…fantasy…if you want to hear it."

"I want to hear…every single one of your fantasies."

Cuddy giggled, "That fundraiser, two years ago, the black and white one for Oncology. I wore that black dress, it had a great slit up the leg, steep dip down the back…the cut on me was perfect…showed…just enough, not too much. You were there in fucking jeans, just to irritate me. I saw you looking at me a few times…it seemed like maybe…you wanted me."

"I want you no matter what you wear. But I do remember that night. I didn't totally disregard the rules, they _were_ black jeans."

"Thank you for your effort, really out of your comfort zone," she giggled. "That night, when I went home…I thought about you. You are going to make fun of me…I know it…but…what the hell. You watching me…my every move, it made me crazy. I could barely concentrate…simply because you were looking at me, and you thought I looked _that_ good. By the time I went home that night-"

"Alone?" he interrupted.

"Yes…alone. I was so turned on. I had this fantasy about…about you having to drive me there that night for some reason or another. About you…trying to sneak touches all evening, starting off subtly, a hand on my lower back, your fingers resting against me knee, and sort of…escalating. All while I tried to be the perfect professional…I mean the whole time I'm being cool and calm and acting as if it didn't get to me at all. Then, in my fantasy, I sneak off to my office…because…I know you're going to drive me home, and I'm scared I'm going to cave…I'm worried I'm actually going to just…jump on you right there in the car…so I decide I can't risk it."

House was staring at her, his face blank, not with disinterest, but because his mind was whirring so quickly that he couldn't muster a facial expression. He spoke, his words barely traveling through the rasp in his throat. "Go on."

"So, before I leave, I sneak into my office, and lock the doors, close the blinds, and get up on my desk, my legs facing the chair, my dress hiked around my hips, and I just decide that I'm going to get myself off before I have to be alone in the car with you. My panties are on the chair in front of me, my one heel up on the arm of the chair, and there I am, touching myself…and then…you're there. You tell me you were sitting on my sofa napping…and that I _disrupted_ you. At this point…I want you so badly. Since it's fantasy, I still have my fingers against myself and I'm moving them just a little, because…I can't _not_ move them because I'm so turned on. And you start…telling me what you're going to do while you're…opening your jeans. You walk right over to me and…while I'm still touching myself…you start…fucking me right on the edge of my desk."

Cuddy looked at him, as calmly as if she just told him a recipe for pot pie and not a fantasy that would be forever burned in his brain.

"What about you?" she asked.

He shook his head, his voice so low it could barely be heard. He was convinced every single blood cell had converged in one location. "Me? Um…I'm a huge fan of your fantasy. In fact…ignore every remark I've ever made about you being controlling…I want you, to tell me, what my fantasies are from now on."

Cuddy scoffed playfully, "I'm sure you have some of your own."

"Definitely," he smirked, "but yours, is an entire scenario full of detail. I don't usually delve into details as much as…sights, actions, general ideas. Yours…we could actually _do_ that when we get back."

"What are your fantasies? The ones involving me…I don't want to know the other ones. Let me guess…me and another girl…lavishing attention on you?"

"Of course," he shrugged, "it's impossible not to have had that fantasy. Although I hate sharing in reality."

"What else? Different locations? What do you think about? I hear of these fantasies of me…that you entertain in the shower. What are they?"

House rubbed his scruff for a moment, then propped himself up on his elbows. "It changes. Sometimes they're…the ones you'd probably guess…you stripping, just…plain fucking you when you're bent over pretty much anything, or you…deciding you're so mad at me one day while you're lecturing me that you have to blow me…at my desk while I work…because I'm a professional…and I have a case…and that makes _perfect _sense."

"That happens a lot. When my rage turns into me blowing you."

"It plays better in my head than the nagging."

"Understood"

"Sometimes…it was the memory of the way you looked…when I was going down on you the very first time. I remember that…looking up over your body, across your belly to your perfect breasts and your beautiful face…your lips were…so full and you were moaning things…things smart girls didn't usually moan. And you…when we were…actually fucking, so damn uninhibited and…so into it. Trust me, every guy wants to feel the way you made me feel. Like I was the best lay in the entire world…who was having sex with the hottest woman in the world. That night with you…I was chasing that high for a long time. I think about stuff like that."

Cuddy looked surprised, flattered. "I'm surprised you remembered one girl in the long parade."

"You weren't just one girl in a parade. You shook me up. I'm not easy to shake."

The memories rushed like a flood over both of them, the scintillating tease of her fantasy, the reminder of their past, each an intoxicating aphrodisiac. The fact that they were in a guest room at an experimental hospital was suddenly forgotten. He started pulling her clothes off, they were driven, not by feelings of gentle love, but by the raw passion that helped to define them since they met. They had the potent attraction of two people who found their physical ideal, and had the personalities and interactions to fan that attraction like an inferno.

Their clothes were easily discarded, hands bumping hands, clothes getting caught on body parts when all they wanted to be was naked and exhibiting that passion with their entire beings. He hoisted her up onto the bed. His face was immediately between her thighs as he sat on the floor, his thoughts happily occupied with the vision of her body while he looked up over her, reenacting the moment from their past that he had just told her was part of his fantasy material. He concentrated on the taste of her, breathed her scent as his tongue pressed inside of her, his hands holding her hips still on the bed since she wasn't fully on it, so that she wouldn't fall. Her legs and ass teetered off the edge of the bed, a fact that she didn't try to adjust or correct because she knew he'd never let her fall, but if he did, she'd land directly on his lap. The tension in her body created by the precarious position helped intensify her orgasm.

He directed her feet to the floor so she wouldn't fall, and moved between her legs, already rock hard and desperate for relief. She put her hand on his chest, pushing him back before she turned around, pressing her ass against him. He groaned as he looked at her while she bent over the bed, peering invitingly over her shoulder.

He slid with one urgent thrust into her, his hands running down her back, sliding around to hold onto her hips while he exercised as little self-control as he could, just enjoying her body, her attitude, the freeness of her sexual expression. She reached back to pull him toward her, proving to him through her words and sounds that she was the woman who had occupied his fantasies for so many years, as if there was any doubt.

They were rebounding against each other with the fullness of their desire, her body lost in the overwhelming fullness that he created, his body lost in the pure passion that could only exist when both partners in an encounter were completely consumed by the other. He lifted her hips toward him, moving her body to his in an act that already seemed practiced to perfection by them. He felt the familiar heaviness, the tension that told him he didn't have much time left. He slowed after she came, trying to give her time, hoping that, if he did, she could come for him again, and then he realized a painful truth. It was possible this would be their last encounter. He _hoped_ that later on in the night, they may have sex again, but with nerves and worry, stress and tiredness, there were no guarantees.

He moved onto the mattress, pulling her up next to him, kissing her shoulders, breasts and lips while she returned to reality. He lifted her leg up and pulled her on top of him, his own gnarled thigh beginning to ache too much for gymnastics. He pushed back into her, his arms winding around her tightly, and he knew she could sense his concern, she knew his thoughts. The encounter shifted, altered. Previously they had displayed their passion, a part of them that they both acknowledged somewhere within themselves from time to time throughout the years. But after they moved to the bed, the depth of connection that was felt almost hurt. She took his face and whispered, "Tell me you'll be OK. Promise me that…tomorrow night…I'll be looking at you. Talking to you."

He nodded. He was lost in her completely. Every ounce of him knew that he couldn't make such promises rationally, but every ounce of him also knew that he didn't want to give up what they'd found just when they'd found it. "I'll be there."

His phrase was significant, profound, with meanings that extended far beyond his agreement to awaken the next day. Their climaxes thundered with more than passion, they thundered with deeply intense feelings that went far beyond physical stimulation and corresponding reactions.

* * *

In the morning, they went to the procedure area, doing all of the things they had to do to prepare. They checked in, and House surrendered his personal items to Cuddy: his wallet, his clothing and his sneakers were all placed in a large plastic bag for her to keep for him.

They told her he would be in the OR an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, barely a blip in the time of a normal work week, but an eternity to wait. They let her back into the prep room, told her she could stay until the anesthesiologist arrived. She tried not to pace, she tried to make him laugh, and he was surprisingly resigned, accepting that, at that point, there was little he could do to change the outcome. He also knew he'd rather be the one on the table than the one waiting.

The anesthesiologist came in, and checked his IV, and told Cuddy it was time to leave. She leaned over, kissed House softly, and whispered into his ear, "No matter what happens, I need you to know…I love you."

She smiled one more time, and she was gone. His mind spun for a few seconds when he heard the anesthesiologist say to him, "OK, Greg, since you're a doctor, tell me about your craziest case."

He didn't even bother thinking of one, he couldn't stop thinking about Cuddy's parting words as the drugs overtook him and he drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

Eyes burning and throat choking slightly, Cuddy decided to take his personal items back to the room where she was staying before returning to the waiting room, knowing well that she could deliver his things to her room and be back before they even really got started with the procedure. She walked down the hall, carrying the plastic bag of his things and his cane. She twisted the cane in her hand, deciding at one point to lean against it while she walked much like he did. She felt her heart ache when she left those items in the room, propping his cane against the chair, and returned.

Waiting for them to contact her with news regarding his condition was the tensest hour and seventeen minutes of Cuddy's life. She wasn't going to tell him her feelings, even though they were playing in her mind for days, but when she saw him there, she realized that she wanted him to know, in his final moments of consciousness, that he was loved by someone. She hoped he'd feel that while his body endured the cold impersonality of the operating room.

In that moment, there was no awkward expectation that he return the sentiment, he could pretend it was all forgotten if he wanted to, due to the procedure or anesthesia, and it was, in many ways, a gift. Like the efforts she took to have him chosen for the study, her words were very much a gift, given without expectation of payment or reciprocation, and simply designed to end his hurt, and both were offered genuinely.

Each set of footfalls in the hallway got her attention. The earlier approaches worried her, coming to get her too quickly could only mean disaster. As the time wore on, the sounds of people approaching excited her, made her hope that they were finally coming to get her, to update her, to let her see him. Just when the correct set of footfalls met her ear, a startling thought crossed her mind. What if he truly didn't love her too? What if her words were horrifying instead of calming?

When the surgeon who had assisted with the procedure sat down next to her, but before he spoke, she realized, that it didn't change her feelings. She knew she'd be crushed if House didn't care, if he wanted to part ways, although she suspected through his actions and words that he did reciprocate her feelings, her feelings were true no matter what his were. She, on her part, did what she could to address the emotions within her.

"The procedure went fine," the surgeon's assistant said. "We won't know about the exact success for a few moments, but, there were no complications, and there are, so far, no signs of neurological defect."

"Can I go back and wait with him?"

"He's in recovery, you'll have to wait."

"Please?"

"I can't let you back there. Someone will come get you when the time comes."

Cuddy paced, trying to focus on the fact that he survived without hemorrhage or stroke, that they'd conquer any other obstacles, but the wait to see him felt never-ending.

After nearly three hours, the lead surgeon, Dr. Hoffmann, peeked around the corner with a sly grin, and signaled for Cuddy to join her. She did without comment or hesitation, following while the surgeon scanned her badge through two separate access points, and let Cuddy into the ICU. Cuddy asked the surgeon several times, "How is he?"

When they were directly outside of his room, the surgeon smiled, putting a hand on Cuddy's arm, "Go ask him."

Cuddy walked as quickly as she could without breaking into a jog to his side. He was in an upright position, normal following procedures involving the brain. His eyes were closed and she thought for a moment that he was asleep. Just in case he could hear, she scooped his hand in hers and whispered, "How are you?"

His eyes were still closed and he said, loudly, "You just _had _to have the last word, didn't you?"

"What?"

He opened his eyes, a slight smile pulling the corners of his mouth. "Why'd you say it _then_?"

"Oh, umm…Because it had to be said. Because I wanted you to know," she shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed, "Because it's true."

He nodded and started to speak as she held her hand up, "House, don't. I'm not…expecting anything, we have time. Don't make decisions now."

"I love you," he answered calmly. "I'm not deciding now, I decided before."

Cuddy smiled as she looked down at his hand. "How's your pain? They said you should be able to tell if it's helping."

"My head kinda…feels funny."

"What about…other pain?" she asked, looking toward his leg.

House wiggled his leg, pressing down into the flesh with his hand. After a few moments of self-evaluation he looked up at her with a grin, "What pain?"

* * *

_A/N 2-I know a few of you asked that I continue on with this one. I may do another short one on this idea, but I don't want it to turn into an epic-long rerun of Too Lost._ _Thank you so much for all of your support and I hope you enjoyed it!  
_


End file.
